Cast Into Light
by Jack Motley
Summary: Not all who are just become heroes, not all that is Light begets good, and not all those who harbor hate find peace.
1. Chapter 1

All your characters, ideas, settings, bases and cookies are belong to Blizzard Entertainment. You are on the way to fanfiction. (What you write?) You have no chance to read make your time. Ha ha ha ha... (Captain!) Take off all 'canon'. Move 'canon'. For great justice.

**Prologue**

You, who have taken from me my love; you, who have defiled my home and my memories; you, arrogant and foolish enough to allow me this continued, wretched existence; I know you're out there, past these placid walls, across the great waters, and across the stars.

I will find you. I will hunt you down with an unforgiving, unmerciful vengeance across gaps made miniscule compared to the enormity of my seething hatred for you. And when I catch up to you, marched over a smoldering trail laid thick by the remains of everyone and everything you ever held dear, I will lay you to the ground with such a force, that by all that is unholy, I shall strike the world irreparably in two; so that you shall know, and the world shall know, the depths of my fury.

**Chapter One**

Once upon a better time, long since departed, I could find welcome comfort in a long night's rest. A chance to sleep and to dream; a means to retire from the drudges of the true world lay just outside a home's warm walls, behind the veil of closed eyes, lost within the sheets of a soft bed and within the embrace of an even softer love. The promise of a new day met with fresh eyes just on the other side of a serene, ethereal gap of floating consciousness

Now, as I awaken to my last, painfully bright morning within the unwelcome walls of the Sunspire, I find only relief that the necessary journey through the shadowy world of wailing nightmares is at an end, for now.

My wounds have healed enough to go back out into the world. A world made strange, twisted and dangerous in the years I have spent in the shadow recesses of my mind. The Sunspire's residents speak of how animate dead, uncontrolled magic and warmongering demons abound. There are rumors of a great betrayal amongst our kind, and of excursions to other worlds and continents in pursuit of great artifacts and even greater foes.

As I look out upon the land from the Sunspire's front walkway, I look out onto an island as testament to my people's arrogance and complacency: the Sunwell, source of our needless magic addiction, destroyed by the very same armies of undead who scoured away my former life's joy. All around this chaotic island, creatures of magic roam unchained and undisciplined, severed from bonds of demonic magic we have all so foolishly consumed and grown reliant upon to satiate our addictions and egos.

As I step out from under the shade of the Sunspire, and out into the bright sun, I steel myself for the act of making myself useful to those who had looked after me during my long recovery. It would be the least I could do, and an opportunity to stretch my legs and regain my strength.

Magistrix Erona, a blonde, short-tailed haired Blood Elf mage, greeted me upon my reemergence into the greater world, "Good morning, sunshine," she said with a smarmy grin, "You're looking better. How are you feeling?"

I was in no mood for her. I was never in any mood for her. She grated on my nerves with the grace of a jagged knife. "I have had worse days," I said as diplomatically as possible.

"Indeed you have," she agreed in the most frustrating manner, "Heard you're leaving us, though?" Erona tilted her head at me, eying me like a puzzle. "Couldn't imagine why."

I barely contained a smirk. "Do not think me ungrateful. I intend to repay the debt for the care and patience you all have showed me."

"Good. Because there's a fair bit of work needs doing around the tower. Hope all that training you've nearly ripped open your old wounds for over the last few weeks taught you something. The Blood Knights tell me you have some real talent. Prior experience, perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

"I don't know what I was expecting…" She mutters to herself, and then turns back to me, handing me sheets of paper scribbled with various scripts of eloquence. Each one marked by a requester's name, with requests to visit said requesters that stacked tall and heavy in my hands, making me feel like a carpenter with a sword for a hammer, and nails made of squealing flesh and blood.

I listened to each request with due attentiveness. Erona went first, telling me again the story I already knew about the unstable demonic energy crystals scattered around the island, fueling control over the native creatures, and how said creatures caused trouble for the island's residents without the crystal's controlling stability. The other requests were more or less similar: the creatures were uncontrollable, and must die. At least Erona made an excuse out of collecting the native lynxes' collars, to try and once more exert control over their own once slaved creations. Some of the other requests bordered on laziness, or just plain fear, and may the Gods render no help to those who fear what they cannot control.

I did not necessarily agree in the killings, but I owed a debt I could not consciously leave the island until I repaid. What they asked was reasonable enough I could withhold my resignations until it was over, and would in turn hand back over onto those whose woes each belonged.

During my cold culling of the native lynxes, I saw a pair of lynxes, an adult and a cub, prowling together amongst the lush grass behind the Sunspire tower. I could not bring myself to raise my hand against them. Such a bond was far more sacred than any petty concerns over magic and control. I wished the lynxes happiness devoid of me, and carried onwards, embroiling myself further than I would like in the concerns of the Sunspire.

One request above all agitated me, from one of Magistrix Erona's friends, who concerned himself over an 'enemy of the people' occupying an old school not far from the Sunspire, proclaiming him a 'threat'. The Blood Elf, one of many they called, Wretched, Erona's friend claimed would not learn control, and had long ago fallen into the depths of full and irreversible magical addiction and corruption.

I did not approve, and told the naïve Blood Elf in so many words, "He refused to learn control? Control from whom; himself? That is his right, and his choice, and perhaps the wisest one, for your control trying to mold him into your idea most likely made him the pitiful thing he is today. I'll pass on involving myself in this social squabble. I do not care for your 'peoples' politics that much." I turned away from him, and made my way back to Erona to let her know there were some requests I simply would not fill.

"That's fine," she said, "Lanthan will be disappointed, but he does not know you like I do. I'm sure some other eager soul will happily come along and do the deed, in the name of our people, of course."

"I'm sure," I half-heartedly agreed.

She let out a long sigh and looked at me weird. "You really are leaving, aren't you?"

I let the flat look on my face and the statures of my body answer for me.

She raised a long golden eyebrow at me. "I'm kind of going to miss you; kind of like I miss magic voids."

"I'm sure I feel likewise."

She smirked. "Charming, as usual, Cindy," she said, calling me by the pet she knew I disliked. My name is, Cyndori. I no longer claim the surname of my deceased family. "Alright, then, I won't stop you. You've done enough for us, already. You should come back sometime, you know. The place is growing, and you'll always have your cot, and me, of course."

"Can't wait for the homecoming. It should be a real joy."

"Just get your pessimistic butt of here, Cindy," she said with a smile edged with sadness. "You should go looking for the Farstriders down south, along the road, if you're heading that way. We've received word they need a little help, if you feel so inclined to grace them with your enlightening presence on your journey to wherever."

I managed a small smile for Erona, not wanting to leave on too sour of a note, and turned away from the Sunspire. I wasn't too sure where I would go from there, or even which way to pivot my foot on the ground as I set one step out onto the soft grass outside the Sunspire, and then another, and then another, until I could at least be far away from this accursed isle of apathy, boredom and isolation. For there isn't much in this life I am truly sure of, save for this one absolute truth I held in my heart and soul as I walked away from Erona and my home of the past few years: that, that one step forward, was one step drawn closer to those who have wronged me, and the unswerving day I would finally exorcise my demons upon them all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The path is not long, but wounds and twists off the imperfect cobble road meandering downhill to the river below. As I arrive, around the hill's bend, I stop full at a sight that stills the fire in my heart, and briefly flutters a glint of hope within the dark turmoil inside. An intact bridge of perfect, unblemished stone spans the gentle river, and beyond that, lay the great fortress entrance to Dawning Lane; its gates raised, the spires and towers stood tall. Just through them, I feel, is Silvermoon—the home of my people, safe and preserved behind this awe-inspiring fortification.

However, not all is as I dare hope. An Outrunner, couriers for our people, stands to the side of the road next to a broken-wheeled wagon, staring at my approach with reserved curiosity. I remember what Magistrix Erona made mention of, and stop out of what I can only think of as mutual curiosity to the plight of such unenviable, but necessary individuals. Her tale is a simple one: an Outrunner has gone missing down Dawning Lane, and the Wretched are perhaps to blame.

"Wretched?" I ask. "In our Silvermoon? Has this problem become so widespread?"

She stares at me with cold, green eyes. The look on her face tells a story beyond the need for words, and I feel the frozen dagger once more jab into my spine, knowing I do not want to know, but asking anyways. Pain is pain, and pain only grows stronger once ignored.

"Go see for yourself," she says, her words bitter, "If you find our Outrunner, tell her, she's late." Our eyes meet for a moment, but she looks away, turning her back to tend to her broken wagon. I turn away without a word, leaving her to her job.

Dawning Lane lies just beyond the raised gate ahead. I leave the upset Outrunner to brood, understanding the emotion, if not the reason, and walk up the cobbled path, crossing under the high gates, and through to the other side. Dumbstruck by the sight of what truly lay upon the other side of what now seems a cruel façade; I turn my head slow, taking in the grim ruins of the city I once knew. Where there were once great architects and magical beauty, now exists only their cruel ghosts: buildings cracked and broken, violated by maddened, arcane machinations and bent-over creatures lumbering no better than undead Scourge. The statues of our heroes are leaning on the verge of falling, while others lie in shattered pieces as testament to the ruination's inevitable conclusion. Dawning Lane cuts through it all; a straight and bright path through the gloom our Silvermoon has become. Upon the lane, I sense the stir of magic, and know that it beckons as beacon the unfortunate traveler through the decrepit city.

Not all travelers have made it across the lane, however. I look down; my eyes drawn to as many morbid sights as can be perceived by mortal eyes, and see the crumpled and bloody body of a young female. A lone blade rests by her feet, and an untouched package held with a deathly grip to her chest, tells me I have found the unfortunate Outrunner.

I lean down to check for a pulse, but she is long gone from this world. Bruises and long, coagulated slash wounds that look the work of animal claws cover her exposed flesh. I care not to control the disappointed growl that is my reaction to this deed. I do not know this Outrunner's name or life, but a daughter, perhaps a girlfriend or wife of someone, she was, and for that and the cruel nature of her death, she had my sympathy.

I pry the package from the Outrunner's rigor arms, and realize I am not alone. The grass and scrub brush move, and from the shadows come gangly, pale-skinned creatures making cruel mockery of what was once my own race—Wretched.

I stand up slow, sword in hand. "So, you are the foul things responsible for this, are you?"

The Wretched groan and creak; their tight-skinned faces stretch in an individual variety of pain or glee as the group of eight surrounds me. Their weapons: splintered pieces of wood and jagged pieces of metal held with a thug's lack of grace, and in as many grips as novices know.

I stand over the Outrunner's body with my sword raised straight and steady. "Be warned, I do not harbor interests for your problems or your ethics, Wretched, but you raise your stained claws against me; against the remnants and memories of my defiled city, and I shall destroy you without compassion, pity or remorse." I point my sword at the biggest one. "Depart or die. There shall be no compromise, for you."

They choose the latter, and I care nothing either way, striking down the biggest one through the long stick he chose as his weapon. The Wretched lumber along, awkward, with little balance, and I slaughter them to the last.

I catch the last one around the neck as his intestines and kettles of blood spill onto the ground, holding him up from his fall. I look into those dim eyes, and see agony, fear and a hunger unquenchable even in the throes of death. "Did you kill this girl?" I demand of him, but between spurts of blood filling from his throat and mouth, he cannot speak. "Shake your head; yes or no. Did you kill this girl?" He shakes his head, croaking on his own vital fluids. "I would not forgive you, anyways." I twist my wrist and snap his neck, letting him crumple to the ground.

The Outrunner enjoys company in death, but I do not let it last. I gather her blade and package, placing them upon her body. I pick her up in my arms and carry her body to the Outrunner on the other side of the gate, who receives the young girl's corpse with shock and a poorly hidden tinge of sorrow.

I leave the Outrunner to her unfortunate task, but I take the package. "Where does this go? I shall finish her last mission."

Her friend does not register my question for a minute, staring at the corpse. I clear my throat, and she turns her head back enough to look at me, and answers the question I know she heard the first time. "An easy route…to Falconwing Square, that's what I thought, at least." She turns her head back to the corpse. "Is the lane no longer safe…? Why did this have to happen…? Why did you die…?" She shakes her head back and forth slow, lost to the world in a gray fog of shock—impenetrable and familiar to me.

The Outrunner mumbles incoherently to no one, and I leave her be. Package in hand, down Dawning Lane, through the ruins of my city, laying a cobbled road of Wretched bodies, slicken by their blood, I travel onwards.

* * *

The old elves from our better times once said, "The pursuit of civilization is a means to basic comfort and egotism, verging perilously, always, upon the precipice of apathy and complacency—the downfall of all." A way of speaking, perhaps, about the danger laying within the goals of becoming too comfortable in one's ways, either by the plateau of peace and civility, or, in the case of what I come upon in Falconwing Square; a dangerous detachment from harder reality, tucked away, eyes shut and ears covered, in a nook in the back of the world.

As I step up the hill in the cobbled road, and set forth foot within the low wooden-fenced square keeping the surreal ruin on the other side at bay, I see a pristine fountain; potted flowers, trimmed hedges and blood red banners of what has become this nation, floating upon waves of invisible, arcane magic. Blue light glows from lanterns during the daylight hours, and around it all, small wagons line the square, their merchants tending to them, offering wares to the traveler through.

This is surely a maddened oasis, but I carry through, past bored guards with double-blade swords and tall shields, standing guard by the square's inn, even while the world outside wastes away. They pay me no mind as I go inside, following the directions on the package, through a veil of purple silk, into dimly lit serenity the feel and look of a brothel.

The mistress of the inn, a long, red-haired elf wearing comfortable, revealing dress, meets my eyes upon my entrance. Another, younger elf, who could well be the mistress' daughter, glances out of the corner of her eye from behind the counter as I approach.

"This is yours, I believe." I hand over the package the Outrunner died trying to deliver, but do not let go until she puts both, unblemished hands around it.

The mistress casts a wary glance upon me after the exchange. "Thank you. I wondered when this would arrive. The Outrunners have grown tardy, as of late."

She begins to open the package. "The last courier died coming here." I tell her, but she does not seem moved with concern. I do not go about my business, but rather, wait to see what was so important; a young elf had to die to deliver it.

I see the package's contents, aghast: a delivery of cooked fish, and water in a pouch, pulled from a rare spring, I dare to hope—the only way to preserve the value of such a mundane delivery.

"That is it?" I ask the mistress. "Mere food for your customers?'

She cocks her head at me. "Of course, the price of seafood is astounding, with the blasted Wretched still holding the anchorage. Our customers appreciate a rare dining experience such as can be fished off Sunstrider Isle, if the Outrunners can deliver it fresher than this."

The elf behind the counter screams. I have her mistress by the neck, held up with one hand against the wall. My other hand holds the package of opened fish.

"A girl—a living, feeling individual—died so you can make a copper." I twist my wrist, letting her feel the strength and anger that might break her neck. "And all you can think about is the quality of your wares?" She's fighting for air, but I do not care. "You are worse than any soulless, undying abomination; the undead do not feel, but carry on, regardless."

"Put her down, stranger," a male voice orders, and I comply, letting the mistress fall and crumple to the floor.

I turn to the voice—the mistress coughs for air on the floor behind me—seeing a white and silver-haired elf, backed by a pair of guards, his red blade by his side, staring at me sternly. He seems stronger than the others, wearing crimson mail and a look of mirth in his eyes.

"I'm not looking for trouble."

"You seem to be trouble, stranger," he replies, turning his eyes to the innkeeper behind me, and then back to me, "You're no Outrunner; they don't have the courage to strike their customers, even if they might deserve it. I don't recognize you, either way?"

"Cyndori," I answer, wrapping the fish back up in their packaging, "I'm just passing through."

"Never heard of you, really," he says, and walks up to me, "I'm Aeldon Sunbrand. Captain Aeldon Sunbrand, of the Blood Hawks. We look after this square, usually against troublemakers like you."

"That's nice." I step past him, but the two guards supporting him stop me. I turn to look over my shoulders at the Captain.

"Just thought we might make acquaintances, you know?" He waves a lazy hand. "Hello. As in, unless you're here to help with the Wretched, if I see you here again, I'll toss you to the insane arcane guardians out there, understand?" The smile on his face wasn't real, and I found myself appreciative for the derangement. Insanity was calculable. A wasting disease, often led to last, destructive bouts against friend, enemy or both.

"I'll leave you to it, then," I say, the guards step out of my way to let me pass; back out of the inn, into the square.

"Hey, you," the Captain calls for my attention, and I stop long enough to give it to him, "That delivery belongs to the inn, you know?"

I glance down at the package of fish, and then across the square, to where a group of the Blood Hawk's junior members harass a captive Wretched. "I'm not an Outrunner," I say, walking over to the group, "I never promised anything."

I push aside the younger elves, and hand the fish to the Wretched on his knees, begging for something from his tormentors. The pitiful creature devours the fish in seconds, to the protests of his captors. I just smile back to the Captain, ignoring his people, and head up the road.

I wonder what waking world this alien plane I once knew as, Silvermoon, had become since my long departure through the dark oceans of an unconscious mind. Even now, I must wonder, am I truly awake? Did I survive those dire times, or is this what the afterlife of a life lived departed from the undetermined ideal begets? This waking nightmare of isolated and warped minds, upon their own individual islands, lost within dark seas of their own.

If this is the eternal darkness; faux shadows of what once was, and an eternal torment assailed by ethereal demons wearing mortal guise; than life was the immortal, divine plane, and death, the fall from grace. I hear cries of pain, the clashing of metal, feel the burning surge of adrenaline through my veins, sensing danger close by, and know, terrifyingly; I am not dreaming.

"More Scourge approach!" Someone yells over the chaos of battle nearby. "Do not let them through!"

I turn, my sword drawn, and rush up rolling hills of verdant grass, under trees of brown and orange leaves, to the sound of battle, stepping upon ground suddenly blackened, lifeless and cracking under my feet. A small group of my people, Rangers, fights against a small legion of animate skeletons and collections of rotten flesh, ghouls; outnumbered, with the broken walls of Silvermoon at their back.

I snatch up a skeleton by the back of its neck, ripping its skull off and using it as a hammer to smash a ghoul's head into puss. The elf it had stalked, cast a quick glance in my direction—no time for pleasantries—turning to another creature as I turn to another, shattering bones into dust and tearing apart rotten flesh of ghouls with my hands and sword.

The fight is short, but the piles of bodies are great, far outnumbering the living. A skeleton's skull makes a pleasant crunching sound under my boot, ceasing its last twitch. False life once again cast to stillness. The ghouls still shudder and convulse; their unlife not so easily ripped from them. The grim task of driving blades through the corpses until they lay still lies only with us, strangers once and strangers again—staring at each other, out of breath, out of caution.

Their leader is a stoic, white-haired elf, appraising me as I appraise her. Green, fel-corrupted eyes meet, and I nod to her and her companions, placing my sword back in its sheath across my back, my intentions made clear.

I look away from them, away from the broken walls of Silvermoon, and notice for the first time, the parched, cracked and lifeless strip of land stretched for as far as I could see, away to the south. Down the path, I can see more creatures move, not of the living.

"The Dead Scar," one of the Rangers says, "More will come. They always do."

I turn back to face them, a rage welling in my chest. "Is this it? Are you all the defense of what is left of us?"

The lead Ranger shakes her head. "No. Where, perhaps, have you been, friend? We hold this line amongst others. Token defense against the inevitable tide of unlife Deatholme sends to harass us. It is a rather common occurrence."

I cannot help the strange look passing across my face. "What madness propagates such a thing? These are enemies to be cast before us and destroyed."

As I speak, the monsters below stir. Another surge is forthcoming, and the Rangers' faces tell me they know; their fatigue is old and cynical.

"Talk to the Magistrates," they say. They all say. "It is not up to us to decide where to fight. We are here, at this terminus of the Dead Scar, until we all die, the last unliving falls still, or the world ends, but not before Silvermoon takes action."

Enraged, I draw my sword, but the line of Rangers do not flinch nor care. The momentum of the undead below turns towards us. The endless battle will once again surge and recede, again and again, until the last unliving falls, or the world ends.

I point my sword down the scar. "At the end, lay the source of this all? This, Scourge, the creatures who brought this upon our home, my home, all of our homes, and begun this descent into dementia?"

"It is called, Deatholme," the lead Ranger says, "There is nothing there but death; the things that spawn from the place, and for you, if you assault its walls, stranger." She glances down the Scar, at the oncoming swarm. "Move along, now. Follow the walls to Silvermoon and leave this to us, friend."

"No."

She raises a brow at me. The Scourge are upon us.

"Not today." I bring my sword around and separate a full line of unliving from their lower bodies. "Not again. Not ever."

A flash of buried memories bolt through my head: a child's laughter, a house ablaze, the cries of terror in the darkness, and the unfeeling, emotionless faces of things owning no life, moved by the puppetry of unseen forces. I cut through the first surge, screaming in rage, fueled by the images in my mind, painted across every abomination facing me, banished by my sword through them, cutting the strings binding them.

I do not know how long or how far I fought down the Scar, killing everything in sight, but I remember darkness of night, an infinite swarm all around me, and a brilliant light searing through my mind and my enemies, guiding me as a beacon what felt like years later to consciousness, lying on a bed under an unfamiliar ceiling.

I turn my head to see a mid-aged elf in heavy plate armor, her helmet off, long, red hair spilling down past her shoulders, talking with an elven man in long robes.

The robed one notices me and turns to greet, "Good morning, and welcome to Silvermoon City."

The other one looks wary of me, but I do not care. Silvermoon City? This? I am tired. I don't want to deal with this world, right now, feeling fatigue creep back through my mind and body. The darkness approaches, once more, full of screams and anguish without form or bound, but I fall back through it. The waking world is no better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

I sense terror and futility. The sense of dread that comes knowing the end is near and having no hold to prevent it. The Scourge are coming; swarms of walking, hungered dead, coming for us, for Silvermoon; the home of us all, the high elves, and for my own homestead.

I stand the line, amongst others, for that is what veterans do. This is not my first war. I am an old, battle worn high elf; a growing oddity amongst my more peaceful brethren and the rock that holds them together, for I do not fear those who would do me harm; I have killed many. I fear for those who cannot and should not have to fend for themselves: the young, the old—the innocent. Those who have never bloodied their hands and I hope never shall.

Another wave of moving corpses, one amongst dozen this dark day, crash into our shambled line, and we fight like beasts to repel them. By my hand, dozens return to their unliving peace, but by cold bone and flesh, more of the living joins them. There are too many Scourge; they do not feel pain or fear. There are not enough of my people, inexperienced and scared. Individuals once of warm blood and living flesh fall, and return to replenish the unliving's numbers, again and again. Grim is the task of burning the bodies before the contagious plague turns them, as well, denying the Scourge one more body to throw against us.

He is coming. I can hear a horn in the distance, deep in its bass and far in its reach, signaling forward the enemy. I know his name—the traitor, Arthas Menethil. Once a prince, but never again shall we call him such, for he is the betrayer of humankind and of the living. The champion of the Scourge leads his dead army against us.

Artillery of blood and bone infused with explosives fall down upon us, and the high elves of Silvermoon begin to break. It is inevitable. There are too many of them, coming far too fast. Our gates and runes of defense do little to slow them. Someone yells a command to retreat, echoed from tree to gate, to scrambled together lines of defenders. Chaos ensues and everything falls apart.

I turn and run, as well, back to our farm.

"Dory? What happened?" My wife is still here, and to my horror, so is our daughter. The tranquil lie of our farm, the horses and hawkstriders still feeding lazily amongst the tall grass, frightens me.

"We've lost," I tell her, grabbing hold of her hand with a gentle squeeze for urgency. "Take Veena and load onto the wagon. I'll bring the horses around." I do not tell her to ready the wagon's load. I know she has already done everything but harness the horses.

As I leap the fence and reach for a horse's bridle, I curse our kindness, giving away horses and mountable hawkstriders to everyone in need of moving their families from the Scourge. I cannot curse my wife, however. She would never leave without me.

Something knocks me off my feet, splattering me with horse blood. One of the two beautiful horses we bred and raised taking the force of Scourge artillery in my stead. The other neighs in terror and takes flight, leaving me on the ground, dazed, a ringing in my ear and a bloody bridle connected to nothing still held tight in my hand.

I pick myself off the ground and stumble back to our house. A sense of dread runs icy fingers through every inch of my body as I see the roof caught fire. A silence pervades, worse than any nightmare.

I can hear the horn of our enemy blaring, drawn nearer. I turn the corner, my heart sinking, seeing the wagon destroyed—a pile of burning wood and cloth. From the fire and debris, something small wails, stumbling blindly, consumed by orange and blue fire.

"Veena!" I call to her, drawing her attention from the panic, running over, tackling her to the ground. She screams in horrible pain as I roll her through the grass and dirt, using my hands and arms to extinguish the corrupted fire from her body. I put her fire out and pull her up into my arms, but she wails still. Her clothes and most of her body burned, blackened; long blond hair burned back to the scalp, I can see parts of her cheekbone through her face. She cannot see me, her eyes are singed shut, but I comfort her in my arms, feeling something terrible course through her body.

I do not see my wife.

"Stay with me, baby," I plead to her, trying to sound calm, but I hear the horn draw nearer then before. They are close. The Scourge descends upon our farm.

I cannot allow them to take her, not so long as I can defy the wretched abominations and the inhuman thing that drives them. My daughter cradled in my arms, sobbing in pain, I turn and run through the forests to the coast. Small boats would still be there, taking refugees to the islands, perhaps to meet Alliance ship, I hope. Perhaps the Scourge cannot swim.

Through the tall forest I run. Behind me, I can hear the sickly growls and blood-curdling moans of the dead. I know they can smell me and the horrible burn of my daughter's skin, but I run faster, coming out onto a soft beach under a red gloom of a night sky.

There are no boats at shore. They have all pushed off. Their occupants do not look back at me, nor at the small group of desperate elves as late as I and just as frightened by abandonment.

I feel my daughter limp in my arms. "Veena?" I try to pull her back, but she has passed without my notice. She was not even of age to ride a horse, but old enough for the uncaring plague of undeath to afflict her. My Veena twitches and moans, a sound unbelonged to a child. She becomes one of them in my arms.

The Scourge are shadows in the shore's tree line behind us, but I am not concerned. I carry my daughter out into the ocean, pushing through the waves and current. She is fighting me, now, growling and resisting with the strength of the dead, trying to do me thoughtless harm, but with strength of one left no further hope, I hold her and carry us both out past the breakers.

I can hear the screams of the other elves on the shore, dying. I won't let them have my daughter, though, diving us both under the water to the bottom, I have enough breath to resist her thrashing while wrapping my shield's strap around her body, weighing her down. I intend to drown us both, so our bodies both can wash away with the currents, away from the Scourge, denying them the defilement. If I'm crying, I cannot tell. The salt of the ocean stings my eyes.

Veena sinks away from me, the shield pins her to the bottom and I watch as those blue eyes, torn open by a force of unliving, painless will, stare back at me with a cold hunger until the oxygen leaves her body. Even the undead have physical limitations, but it takes far too long for her to pass, until what has become of my Veena floats along the bottom, lifeless once more, and a father can hope, at peace.

I watch her go, my vision blackening as oxygen leaves my lungs, as well. Something grabs me by the back of my neck and pulls me from the water, however, denying me my peaceful death together with my daughter. My body defies me, gasping for air. A large, stitched-together abomination has me and I draw my sword, spinning my weight in its grasp to cut its head off.

The abomination falls into the water, and I land on it. More of the Scourge are coming in after me and by all that is unholy, if I cannot die in peace with my daughter, I will die in a rage, covered in my own blood, and the blood and organs of the Scourge, until I can fight no more, and I hope, rise long enough to spit in the face of the one responsible.

* * *

"Kill it!" I hear someone say, panicked. "Kill it before it turns!"

I am in darkness. Lost in a void of my own personal hell—burning. I can hear them arguing, terrified, over my body. They think I'm about to turn to the Scourge…

A skeletal creature reaches through the void for me, its sharp-clawed hand grasps for my soul, its permanent grin hidden under a veil lit by blue flame. It is the call of the Scourge, the welcome to their fold and final passage into mindless, hungering devotion to one mind, one wretched cause.

I put my fist through the creature's face and grasp hold of a spiked mace aimed for my head, wrenching it away from a frightened elf's shaking hands. "Not…yet…" I manage out, my hand around the spiked mace and fall back into unconsciousness.

An eternity later, I open one eye again, squinting against bright light and see a green-eyed elf looking down upon me with concern. "Good morning, sunshine," the elf I would later know as Erona, greets me.

I waver back into unconsciousness, hearing her speak to another, "He'll survive. No one who can fight off the plague will pass so quietly into the night. Get another blanket and a fel shard. He'll need the extra strength."

"It's not his choice," another voice dissents, "He's still uncorrupted."

"I know, but we have to do what we can. Maybe he won't hate us too much when he wakes."

I go back, away from the voices and back into that dark, personal hell, replaying the day over and over, night in, night out; hearing the screams, seeing the faces, watching her drift away from me—the nightmare that haunts my every darken hour.

* * *

"Is this the fool? The one so callously assaulted the Dead Scar?" I hear some angry male voice speak in the distance of my waking mind.

My consciousness rises through the darkness, once more—a hateful phoenix raging through the permanent shadow imprints of those to whom my ire was infinite. Their face, voice, smell and eyes burnt into my memories; irreparable; unforgivable.

"This fool drove the Scourge to the river," an older female speaks, the voices nearer. "Some of us might well benefit from such action."

"Such action is brash and careless," the male speaks with irritation. "Silvermoon does not need more dead Rangers; their lives thrown away in what you well know is an endless battle. Say nothing of more dead Sin'dorei."

"Perhaps if you had sent more Blood Knights to help, Vranesh, the Scourge might have well been driven past Tranquillen."

"That is Champion Vranesh, to you, Lady Nyssa, outside of and in the public eye." A kindle of dislike begins towards the voice as I surface once more into the light-filled shallows. "We must uphold our sense of discipline as Blood Knights, and as Sin'dorei, for we are the commanders of the Light, and the guiding light of our people."

"Veena…" I whisper her name—my own ritual of remembrance—and open my eyes once more to dim light streaming through an opening in a curtain of dark blue silk. Lying upon a soft bed in a small room, partly sealed off from the rest of the world by another curtain of the same material covered my bed, veiling the light from stacks of candles and chandeliers of a lighter blue glow; I blink away the encrustations of a nightmarish world from where once again I return.

Standing beside my bed on both sides, I see the faces belonging to the two voices once only in my head. There, once again, is the mid-aged elf woman from before, dressed in heavy, red and gold plate armor. Her helmet, full-faced, adorned by two demon-like horns and only a small lengthwise slit for her eyes, sits off her hip opposite a long, fire-enchanted sword. A shield as tall as she, and wider than her body, hangs strapped off her back, giving her a much bulkier appearance than I am sure she truly was under such metal. This elf, Nyssa's gender, given away under the guise of such layers by long, red hair run down both shoulders—one longer than the other.

The other, Vranesh, looks upon me with piercing, judgmental green eyes, framed by a strict face and long, blue hair rose into a topknot. His armor is lighter than Nyssa's, and his shield more of a buckler hung off his arm, but his attitude, appearance and haughtiness is a given to one of command, instead of one of physical action.

"Well, enjoy your little nap, stranger?" Vranesh asks. "You have become quite the bothersome burden."

"Cyndori…" I mutter.

"Come again?"

"His name is, Cyndori," Nyssa corrects. "Perhaps we should give him a moment to come full to his senses?"

"No need…" I put my elbow and forearm into the bed, pushing myself up to a sit, but the pain is still terrible. "Where am I?" I ask. Looking around, I do not recognize such splendor befits a house of whores undeserving.

"Silvermoon City," she answers. "You are at an inn." She leans in closer to look at me, inspecting my face. "Do you remember how you came to this place?"

I think back, the flood of hate coming easily, and the putrid smell of undead flesh and acrid, decayed earth fill my nostrils from memory. I do not remember clear details; only the collected sum, filled with an overwhelming, all-consuming burning hatred. "Scourge. So many Scourge. I killed them all."

"Hardly." Vranesh remarks. "You killed a few weak Scourgelings."

"A few dozen…" Nyssa reminds him.

"Any one of my Blood Knights could have killed dozens more."

I look up at him, staring him in the face, as my blood boils, so returns my energy. "Then, where were your Blood Knights, Champion Vranesh?" I stand up in front of him; placing my face close to his, green eyes met. "Where are your vaunted Blood Knights, while few of our brave people stand alone against the might of the Scourge, against the walls of our city, at the end of the Dead Scar, until they fall, or the world ends?"

"Do not address me with such a tone, elf." Vranesh draws closer to my face, meeting my challenge. "You do not understand anything of Silvermoon, and for all we well know, you are just a guest amongst our people, I do not recognize you so."

"I begin to believe this place I once called my people's home, has gone beyond any ability to be known. What incalculable suffering and stirrings of chaos goes on beyond the demonic corruption of those green eyes, Blood Elf, for this world to become so wrong?"

Nyssa steps in between us. "Enough." She turns to Vranesh. "We are not here to bicker."

I beg to differ, but draw back out of respect of the implications she provides. The look I give her companion, however, holds none such respect.

He stares back at me, equally disrespectful and angered, but his duty comes first. He clears his throat to cover himself. "Whoever you are, elf, I have orders to deliver you to our hall, as much as I might disagree with them."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The two so-called 'Blood Knights' led the way from the inn, remarkable more for its standing, despite all the efforts made by outside enemies, than its dimmed décor. My time there was spent far too long, for one day, one hour, one minute and one second gone by, are measurements of time spent by those stood against us, against me, emboldening and strengthening themselves, while the creak and wear in my bones serve reminder of what little time lay left for one as old as I.

I am not sure what to make of this new Silvermoon City. Stepping out into the street, the sun shines upon clean-swept streets with a gentle grace, accentuated by walls, cobbled streets, ornaments and fixtures of red and gold—the color of blood, a reminder of what was lost; and the color of nobility—my people still persevere.

My heart lifts at the sight of elves in the streets, dressed in fine, casual clothes, tending to their wares and duties, amongst and looked over by more of our people; guards carrying tall shields and double-edged swords, keeping the peace alongside tame, functional, arcane patrollers. The city is alive with life of flesh and bone, and life of magic and mechanical origin. An enchanted broom sweeps past my feet, and I dodge around the mindless servant, nearly stepping upon a cat's tail dodging the broom the same as I, and dare a smile. Perhaps I have misjudged what we have become.

Nyssa glances over her shoulder at my dance with the broom but says nothing. The other, Vranesh, talks without end, complaining about the state of the military, the politics of Silvermoon, and an infestation of 'bow-slingers in our square.' As she looks for a distraction, so do I, for I am sure neither of us wants to hear it.

Vranesh stops outside a tall doorway; far taller than any mortal being ever needs, and turns back to me. My attention drawn to the archers firing at wood targets—the supposed 'bow-slingers'—I almost do not notice him stopped, and could go without ever doing so.

"You are a very fortunate elf, friend," Vranesh says, his sarcasm apparent. "It is not every day one such as you is summoned by Lady Liadrin, herself."

I cast a glance to Nyssa, querying for information. "This most dubious one is honored, I am sure."

Nyssa clears her throat. "Speaking of our Lady, perhaps we should not keep her waiting further, _Champion_ Vranesh?" She turns to look into his face. "After all, the summon came three days ago."

Three days?

Vranesh straightens up at his companion's prompting, clearly reconsidering his past dawdling with a nod. "Of course, _Lady_ Nyssa." One could believe they were lovers… "Come, friend, follow me," he says and beckons with a wave, heading through the tall door. "Try not to touch anything."

"Cyndori."

"Come again, friend?"

I glance sideways, hiding my contempt. "My name is not, Friend. It's, Cyndori. I suggest knowing it, so to properly introduce to your Lady the one being summoned."

"A sound suggestion…Cyndori," Vranesh says, his attitude towards the suggestion well hidden. He keeps walking, and Nyssa turns her head back, the way away from Vranesh, showing me an approving smile.

I follow the two inside, past elves of male and female sex dressed in red, heavy armor of mail and plate. Past weapon racks lining the wall, holding spears, long swords, halberds, two-handed axes and two-handed swords, and past shields with swords sheathed crossways behind them. The hall is extravagant, even by olden standards and times as high elves. Tall golden statues stand to the ceiling, framing doors as tall as the heads, leading into rooms where Blood Knights lounge at rest on silk cushions, sharing pipes of some new herb I do not recognize, talking and swapping stories of aggrandized accomplishments and adventures.

Vranesh stops again and turns around. "Well, Cyndori," he exaggerates my name, "I am afraid our Lady did not anticipate your awakening on such a convenient date. Wait here with Nyssa, and I shall fetch her."

"Am I now an object to be retrieved by the jaws of domesticated beasts, Champion Vranesh?" A red-haired female elf, beautiful, powerful, finely aged and carried with a nobility only matched by a hint of underlying rage, speaks, walking around a corner, two honor guards following her wake. She radiates strength of will, power and an unbridled determination capable of setting the world around her feet on fire. I am somewhat impressed.

Vranesh stumbles for words, his Lady staring fire. "My Lady, I meant no offense, I—"

"Yes, yes, what I cannot hear cannot offend me," she says, casting a quick glance in my direction. "Do you not have a guard shift to see to, Vranesh? I believe Lady Nyssa was enough oversight on the matter of the Blood Elf now presented to me."

"Y-yes, indeed, my Lady," he halts and fumbles, amusing me, "I shall attend to it." Vranesh salutes and his Lady returns it. The elf spares one curious look back at me, and makes his way out, not tempting fate any further.

"Lady Liadrin, I must apologize for the tardiness of our return," Nyssa says with a bow. "This is—"

"Cyndori Dawnstrider," Liadrin speaks my name, and I match her stare with one of my own. We lock green eyes, and I must remind myself not to be smitten by such fire raging behind hers. The same fire raging within my own heart, howls the names of those I loved, and the ones I hate eternally.

A face registers in my mind, however. "I remember you," I say to her. "But you were a Priestess, back in the war." I glance over the heavy, jagged-edged, silver and black plated armor she wears from toe-to-shoulder. "Things have changed."

"Indeed they have," Liadrin says, a short-lived, sad expression flashing through her face, as sure as it did mine, remembering those dark times. "For the worst, but for the better, some would say." She looks over me, as well. "You have not aged well." Words such as those would be insulting, if spoken by anyone else. But there is a kinship; a harsh edge, worn down by war and the responsibilities, tragedies and personal strife endowed by a shared experience of such horror. Such words are forgivable.

"The road has not been easy."

She raises a red eyebrow at me, hesitant to ask a question I know to come, "Your family?"

I look away from her, trying and failing to turn back the tide of emotion the question wrought. Knowing it would come did not help in the least. "Dead."

"I'm sorry," Liadrin says, "I felt compelled to ask; to hope for a better answer."

"And you would ask, anyways," I say, turning my head back to her, the stone dam back in place. "You knew I was coming?"

Liadrin looked at Nyssa for a moment. "I have known since you took up training with the Blood Knights on Sunstrider Isle, Dawnstrider." She looks back at me. "However, I know you, stubborn fool, and know you would not accept my offer to help. You have always made your own way. That is why you were such a great Ranger."

"Those times are long gone and dead," I say. "I am Ranger nor soldier of Silvermoon no longer."

Nyssa speaks, and Liadrin does not mind, "Your record over the past few days would say otherwise." She rattles off my misdeeds as if they were admirable: "You did good work for Magistrix Erona at the Sunspire. Then there were the reports from the Outrunners of you clearing out an infestation of Wretched bandits by yourself." She looks away, hiding another smile, of course. "Then there was the incident at the Falconwing Inn, and, of course, the Rangers worshiping you as something of a small God for relieving them of defending the Dead Scar for almost two days straight."

"You assaulted an innkeeper, Dawnstrider?" Liadrin asks, and in the green light of judgment that is her eyes, I almost feel repentant for my actions.

"I might not have been in the best mindset," I say. "It was not something I would have done in the past. Things have changed…"

"Do not apologize," Liadrin says. "I believe I may understand." She nods at Nyssa. "However, this reunion is not why I summoned you, Dawnstrider." I raise my head, sensing the change in her tone. "Come with me. I believe there is something contained within this hall that might interest you greatly."

* * *

"What in the fel is that?" I ask; staring up into what I can only guess is the face of some alien creature, born of a universe, dimension or plane strange and unknowable to our own.

"We know him to be called, M'uru," Lady Liadrin says, keeping her respectful distance from the creature, bound by crimson beams of energy from Magisters in recessed alcoves.

I cover my eyes, shielding them against the bright, white aura around the creature's form. Its core, around which many free-floating and rotating shards of purple, undeterminable substance orbits, glows brighter still, feeling as if I stare not at a face, but into the heart and soul of a creature as close to a pure state as I can conceive. I track my head up, the being known as M'uru floats off the floor in the basement of the Blood Knight's hall, taller than I by far—a vibrant statue, or a pinnacle of unearthly power, one.

"'He?'" I ask.

Nyssa walks to up my side, far less impressed than I. "It is the only pronoun known to be associated to the Naaru."

"Naaru." I repeat the name, forming it with my mouth, trying to wrap my mind around such a thing. "I have many questions to ask." My eyes cannot track off the Naaru's form, however. I feel entranced.

Liadrin waves me forward. "Ask it."

I wish to ask why, or even how. Dozens of questions and thoughts fill my mind, cluttering and colliding with each other, but one thought pushes through above all, filled with musical chimes.

The thought is a voice, and it is not my own. _"Welcome, Cyndori Dawnstrider,"_ the voice sings in my mind, and I realize it is the Naaru, M'uru, himself.

_"You can speak."_

The free shards in orbit around its body continue to move, but there is no sign from where its voice emits. _"As long as one is willing to listen, one can hear anything,"_ he says.

_"I do not understand,"_ I admit, then feel the still muscles in my jaw. _"I am not speaking out loud, am I?"_

There is a tinkling of wind chimes. I feel its amusement—the adult pleased, watching a child learn. _"Approach my shackled form, Cyndori Dawnstrider. There are many things we should discuss."_

I do not immediately comply. _"I am…concerned,"_ I admit.

Its mind queries mine. _"Do you fear the Light, Cyndori Dawnstrider?"_

Its question pierces my considerable defenses, hitting with cold, stark precision against the darkest corners of my soul, of which there were many. I feel the warmth of the light illuminating places I wish kept secret, and cannot avoid the answer. _"I do not fear the Light, M'uru,"_ I say. _"I fear its judgment."_

The shards of its body rotate, appearing thoughtful. M'uru's musical voice absent from my mind for a worrisome moment leaves me to wonder, have I met its test and failed? What test, and why?

_"What do you know of Paladins, Cyndori Dawnstrider?"_ M'uru asks, and I find myself glad he continues, although I feel stranger still for desiring its acceptance.

_"Paladins are warriors, crusaders and paragons of the Light,"_ I answer. _"When we fought with the Alliance during the war with the Horde, we fought alongside Paladins of the Silver Hand—Dwarf and Human alike."_

_"What is the Light, Cyndori Dawnstrider?"_ M'uru asks.

_"A force of good,"_ I say. _"The belief that one makes the world around them better helping others achieve happiness, so one too shall find their own happiness. It is a pursuit of perfection, and a pursuit of what one believes is right."_

I believe M'uru stares at me, into me and through me. _"What do you seek, Cyndori Dawnstrider? What is the force that guides your life?"_

Never before have I reconsidered what keeps the bone and muscle of my body moving; walking, fighting, always down the long, hard road, but as our minds are connected, I briefly dwell upon it once more.

_"Revenge,"_ I finally say.

The tinkling of chimes once again streams through my mind. _"I do not believe so, Cyndori Dawnstrider. Look again. What is at the core?"_

I look back in my own heart, and see the faces of those who have hurt me, and taken from me everything I loved. Then I realize, as the face of my wife graces my mind, and I see not the charred face of my daughter, turning to the Scourge in my arms, but Veena's face, unblemished, happy and pure; I do not want revenge for the sake of revenge itself. I desire retribution, so that others shall never have to experience the scarring loss I have.

M'uru's voice sings in my mind. _"That, in itself, is the Light, Cyndori Dawnstrider. The Light does not concern with morals and ethics, or deeds of good and evil. The Light is born to all those who toil towards what they feel as right."_ The Naaru's voice bathes in pure, non-judgmental light. _"Are you right, Cyndori Dawnstrider?"_

_"No,"_ I say, without any thought. _"No individual shall ever judge themselves right. I only seek what I believe is right, and that is a happiness devoid of me: a world where a father does not bury a daughter before him, and a world in which no man, woman or child shall ever live in fear. I seek, with the last years left to me, to toil towards that ideal. It is my last wish, what I desire above all, towards a world I no longer have right or reason to live for—my death wish."_

_"Step forward, Cyndori Dawnstrider,"_ M'uru asks, once again.

I comply, this time, feeling warmer as I draw closer, but I wonder if it is the Naaru, or I. I place my hand out to its form, not by any prompting. It felt as the right thing to do.

_"Do you know what difference lies between a Blood Knight of the Blood Elves, and a Paladin of the Silver Hand, Cyndori Dawnstrider?"_ M'uru asks.

Crimson energy lashes around my wrist, but I am not afraid. Its power is beyond compare, but tinged with just a hint of darkness within, flowing into me as a trickle, to begin.

_"Nothing,"_ M'uru says, and courses through me a searing power indescribable.

Fleeting images flow through my mind at disorienting speeds. Colors I have no name for, streak through blurry pictures, stretching uneven length fingers across images I feel as important, but perhaps not immediately so. I glimpse a few, unhidden by the veils placed in front of my mind's eye, and what I see sends my emotions through a sea's turmoil of dark depressions, highest highs and raging furies exchanging places with calm patches of tranquility torturing an already tortured mind.

I learn at least part of the story of the Naaru: Cosmic, eternal creatures, the embodiment of Light itself, traveling the space between worlds, seeking to combat the forces of darkness; demons, unlife, and a hint of far greater blights upon worlds these forces would seed chaos upon and destroy.

Patterns form and imprint upon my mind; glyphs, runes, ancient words; theories and concepts as alien to a mind as mine, I learn them only as abstract thoughts and instinct. As the patterns form, so connects together networks I did not know existed, connecting with other networks; forming larger and more elaborate patterns, creating in turn a sum of knowledge burying itself deep into my psyche.

As the stories unfold, the patterns and networks connecting, I see another set of images: A High Elf wears a Magister's robes, an extravagant traveler's hat with a long feather sits on his head, and with some unseen party, he argues vehemently. The elf's eyes are piercing, ambitious, and the swagger he carries himself speaks of a vast well of arrogance and internal, narcissistic strife. I feel I should know him.

The images change, and I am there, once again; back in the dark days of the short-lived and futile war with Arthas Menethil—the accursed traitor—and his army of the unliving; marching thoughtless, hungering, without pain or fear, over the High Elves of Silvermoon. However, it is not my perspective. It is the perspective of the elf from before, staring across the lush forests that were once Eversong, on the other side of the battle.

He is a traitor, as well.

I snap back into the Blood Knight's hall without warning. The Naaru, M'uru, screams with pain. The sound, a shrill, high-pitched siren is audible to all. Those who would shackle him are frantic to reassert control and stabilize the Naaru, covering their ears against the sound.

I realize I am still drawing enormous amounts of the Naaru's power into me, at a rate far greater than he could give, and it is killing him, but I want more. I cannot stop myself. I feel the surge of Light streaming through every facet of my being, feeling its potential, still seeing the images in my mind, and as I know what M'uru has to give and for what ends, I take as much as I can with a snarl on my face. I will kill the one who betrayed us all, one of our own, and who let the Scourge in to take my life away from me.

Something heavy and blunt strikes me, knocking me away from M'uru, severing the draining connection, but I do not fall. M'uru's screaming falters, his aura and intensity of light wavering as I turn and look to what hit me; Lady Nyssa holding a tall shield, ready to strike me down once more.

"You idiot!" One of the Magister's yells at me over M'uru's anguished cries. "Do you not know what you have done? It is our only source of the Light!"

Nyssa sees that I do not try to drain M'uru again, and lowers the shield to the floor. "Are you alright?" She asks.

I turn to look up at M'uru. The great being of Light struggles against shadow rising up from its core, fighting the Light for dominance, but I believe he will pull through. I have done a terrible thing, but I feel it necessary to the ends he showed me.

"Dar'khan," I say the name sprung into my mind.

"How do you know that name, Dawnstrider?" Lady Liadrin asks, her mood disturbed by what occurred, just now.

"He showed me," I say, "M'uru. I saw his face, the elf that sabotaged the runestones, the gates and all of our defenses: Dar'khan. He who opened the door for the Scourge, bringing ruin, death and misery to us all."

I open my mind. _"I am sorry, M'uru."_

I hear faint music in my mind. M'uru's screams tapers off, but he does not respond with words. I open and close my fist, gripping onto golden light forming in my hand by techniques ingrained now in my head, and by force of will.

"I need a sword. A real sword," I say.

"I have trusted you with many things, Dawnstrider," Liadrin says, "But what you have done here today could be perceived as unforgivable. A Blood Knight takes but a glint of power, but you risked destroying the creature, and our only supply, as well, for what reason? And why should I arm you, after this?"

"Because, you and I share a common foe down the Dead Scar," I tell her, "Dar'khan Drathir." The information continues to flow, filling in gaps, and amongst these voids in my memory the Light pierces, I uncover the truth of knowing this individual before today.

Dar'khan Drathir, a former Magister of the Convocation of Silvermoon—the ruling elite of Silvermoon before the war with the Scourge wiped them out, except for Prince Kael'thas and Dar'khan himself. The rush of thoughts concerning both disturbs me further. There is more than one traitor amongst our people.

"This does not seem a compelling reason," Liadrin says. "We will kill the traitor. It is only a matter of time and forces."

Nyssa clears her throat loudly.

"Spit it out, Lady Nyssa," Liadrin barks at her, no patience for subtle games.

Nyssa looks flustered for a moment, caught out of her usual routine of neutral, flittering interference. "Pardon my contradiction, my Lady, but does not the matter of the traitor drag on with little improvement, while certain politics depend upon its accomplishment?"

"And you are a politician now, Lady Nyssa?" Liadrin stares at her for a moment, and then turns her fiery gaze upon me. "You, on the other hand, I should have thrown into arcane imprisonment, for this."

"But you will not," I say, unflinchingly meeting her gaze.

"No, I will not," she agrees, "but do not believe there is the slightest hint of forgiveness."

"I give none, and expect none in return," I say. "I simply ask your permission—nay, your ambivalence—to carry out this task, as a form of undeserved repentance for my slight against M'uru and your Blood Knights."

Liadrin looks at the wilted Naaru, and then at Nyssa, who tilts her head towards Liadrin . "Fine," Liadrin says. "I would act dishonest to myself, believing I could stop you without force of arms, in any regards." She raises a hand to Nyssa. "But you will go with him—to keep an eye on him. He is now your sole charge, Lady Nyssa."

I give credit to the Blood Knight, Nyssa, for she accepts the task without complaint. Turning to me, she gives me a bewildered look, though. I do not blame her.

"I still need a sword," I remind Liadrin.

She waves me off. "You are Nyssa's problem, now." She turns her back to me, speaking over her shoulder. "Beg of her your implements of hate." Stomping out of the room, displaying the force of her personality for the benefit of all present, letting all know she was in no mood for any further stupidity.

I hear weakened wind chimes in my mind, but they are in a tone I do not readily recognize. M'uru does not seem displeased by these turns of events.

"I did not intend to drag you into this, Lady Nyssa."

She lets out a short laugh. "Gets me away from Vranesh, for a little while," she says and waves me on. "Come, Initiate Dawnstrider, time to make you a real Blood Knight of Silvermoon."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

I finish toweling myself off behind a curtain of purple silk, veiling my bathing form from Lady Nyssa; our mutual shadows separated by thin weave. I anticipated many things as initiation into the ways of the Blood Knight—our people's way of the Light—but bathing was not one of them. As Nyssa pointed out, and I realized as a sort of awakening of my own, personal hygiene falls to the wayside when one's mind is set only to hatred.

"You seem experienced, for a Blood Knight," I inquire, breaking a long silence born of modest necessity.

Nyssa awaits me on the other side of the silk, a shadow form in armor easily mistaken for a male. "With you around, I am no longer such an oddity, Dawnstrider," she replies.

I dress in a red and gold tunic and pants left by squires upon the side of the deep, gold-rimmed bath. "I know many elves, from my time," I say. "However, I regret not remembering you, Lady Nyssa."

"Please, call me, Nyssa, Dawnstrider," she says. "And do not worry. I served in the far south Eastern Kingdoms for much of my life, as attaché to Stormwind and the Alliance, before they turned against us."

I stop lacing up a heavy pair of boots. "What do you mean?"

The tone of her voice suggests something I can't quite read; perhaps pity, humor, or both. "You really have slept through a lot, haven't you? I wish I could have dreamt through it all..."

"It is not worth it," I say, going back to my boots. "What of the Horde?"

She laughs this time. "Oh, Dawnstrider, you will think what I say next in jest, if I tell you."

"Cyndori, please," I say. "And I would believe what you say, Nyssa. I think you one of the saner elves I have met, in my short time."

"I believe that to be a compliment," she says, amused further. "Thank you. But, we are on the verge of an alliance with the Horde."

Words cannot describe how stunned I am, after all the wars and the pain the Orcs and their kind have caused our world, Azeroth; the Alliance my people I remember fought with, and the lands of the high elf. To ally with them, now…

"Are you alright?" Nyssa asks after I take far too long to respond.

"Things have changed," I say.

"You are taking it in stride, at least. Not everyone does so well."

"I do not believe I have much choice," I say and stand up to move through the curtain. There, on the other side, Nyssa waits with a tall, heavy two-handed sword; wide bladed, with a wicked curve at the end and a pommel, wrapped in worn banding; she holds it up off the floor point down.

"That is mine, then?" I ask, and she tilts it to me. I grab it by the pommel and heft it upon into the air, turning it this way and that, inspecting it closely. It has seen many masters, and is in need of care and sharpening, but a good blade at the core, it is, I believe.

Nyssa looks shocked.

"What is it?" I ask.

She looks me up and down, and then over the weapon I hold. "That is a training sword. I intended to put you through stress and conditioning rigors with it, to initiate you back into the fold of things, but…it weighs at least one-hundred pounds…for training purposes."

I hold the sword still by one hand, but feel little of the weight. "It feels as air," I remark, amazed.

"The Light gives us all strength, Cyndori," Nyssa explains, "But how much are you currently drawing upon, to hold that so easily?"

I look across my arm and hand holding the weapon up, but feel just a tingle. "I did not even know such was possible."

She is astounded, and is not the only one. "Blessed Light, you aren't even trying, are you?"

"I am somewhat new to this," I admit, joking just a little. "I…" Patterns form in my head without warning. I see networks of runes like mazes, and feel a tingling sensation run down my spine, through my arms and towards my feet. I blink away the images, and hear and feel a strange thing occurring around me.

"You have an aura," Nyssa says, staring at me still.

I look down my arms, seeing blue light fade from the edges of my clothes and skin; I trace my eyes down my body, and watch the same energy disperse into the ground. I feel…different.

"Break a seal, then," Nyssa asks.

"A seal? I—" I start and stop; the patterns form in my mind, once again; unlocking new capabilities I did not know I had. Golden light flares around my body, illuminating full the bath hall, casting into exile all shadows. The blade in my hand shimmers with a golden hue.

"By the Sunwell," Nyssa breathes, "What did you do to that Naaru?"

"M'uru," I say, inspecting the blade's new aspects.

"M'uru, yes, but the question still stands."

"I do not quite know," I say, taking the sword and resting it over my shoulder. "This is a lot to take in."

"I dare say that is exactly what you did, Cyndori," she remarks. Nyssa turns her head, looking for something in the distance. She points at a vase of flowers floating in the air by arcane magic alone. "One last test, then: Extend your power outwards. Touch that vase with an outlet of your unsealed power of Light, and I will believe you have somehow learned everything I planned to teach you."

I look at the vase, staring at it, trying to determine how to accomplish what Nyssa asks. The arcane magic holding the vase up falters, the vase shuddering and jerking about as I raise my hand towards it, feeling it the right action to form a conduit.

The pattern unfolds in my mind, and the vase and the wall behind it explodes outwards. A ringing in my ear, and a large hole in the side of the Blood Knight's hall, serve as testament to the power I did not realize I could release.

"Blessed Light…" Nyssa says, echoing my thoughts as she looks out the hole, and down onto the streets below. The 'bow-slingers', the Farstriders across the street, stop their practice and stare up at us.

From below, however, a voice hollers in such a pitch and vehemence, even I am somewhat concerned, "For the sake of Kael'thas, whoever did that just signed their life writ!" Lady Liadrin is not amused.

* * *

"Out!" Lady Liadrin pushes me out the tall doorway of Blood Knight hall. I do not resist her.

"My Lady, I deeply apologize," Lady Nyssa turns to say. "It was my idea, and I did not properly think it through."

Liadrin dismisses her with a glance, and turns to me, a hand rose up high; one slender finger points down at my face. "This is all wrought from your abuse of our Naaru, Dawnstrider," she says. "You may have gained some exceptional strength of Light from your wanton, selfish actions, but there is still darkness within you. I can sense it, and it will destroy you and everything around you, if you cannot control it."

I meet her gaze, but say nothing in response. Nyssa moves to interrupt in my behalf, but I put a hand out to stop her. There is no point. I was leaving, anyways.

"Go and find the war you seek, Dawnstrider," Liadrin says. "Exorcise your demons on those who deserve its depths." She walks up, putting her face to my own; green eyes glowing, backlit by a deep anger, look into mine. "Do not return until you have done so."

I say nothing. My expression flat, neutral and unchallenging. She turns her head away after a moment, averting her eyes to Nyssa. The two exchange wordless expressions, speaking volumes I cannot understand.

Liadrin, satisfied, turns away; back inside the hall, leaving Nyssa and myself on the street. The Farstriders watch with muted amusement.

Her Lady out of earshot, Nyssa lets her shoulders sag with a sigh. "You are a handful, Cyndori."

"That was not my intentions, I swear to the Sunwell."

She straightens up and cocks her head to face me, showing a smile that could be despair or genuine humor. "Well, at least you are not boring," she says, hands on her hips. "There really is not much for it now, however, except to make our way south to Tranquillien."

"You mentioned that place before, while I was near-conscious," I say. "The town still stands?" I note the apprehensive look on Nyssa's face. "Nevermind," I stop her from speaking. "Let yet another surprise unfold in its own good time."

* * *

We approach a bridge on foot. At first glance, the bridge is not unlike any other: sturdy, even, made of material reassuring to the eye, and strong under foot. Hundreds of bridges just like it span rivers and streams across Azeroth, but this bridge is unlike others. This is a bridge to nightmares.

I stop, both feet still on fertile ground, one hand gripped onto the bridge's low rails. Nyssa turns back, but my attention is off ahead of her, deep into the dead forest of shadows on the other side, filled with sensible creatures whose instincts have turned from passive indifference to the natural world around them, to a predatory hungering, knowing no bounds of efficient, minimalistic restraint. The nature of the animals on the other side of a clear river—laying in lies as buffer between life and death—are as corrupted as the fel light fungus blossomed into the side and under root of decaying trees.

"We know this land as, Ghostlands, Cyndori," Nyssa says.

I look back over my shoulder, back to the bright light and life of Eversong behind us, on this side of the river. The contrast is disturbing. The Dead Scar in the distance reminds the traveler to be wary; the serenity is a shallow lie.

"Not far up this road is Tranquillien," Nyssa explains. "We must move with haste, from here. Not only Scourge, but also trolls, masterless undead and native animals driven mad by hunger, plague and disease infests this land."

"Tranquillien?" I ask, my new senses seeing more threats than I can count.

"It is the forward most point of our efforts against the Scourge, now," she says. "But it is surrounded and in constant need of supplies and reinforcements. I hope you are ready."

I step onto the bridge. "Lead on, then."

* * *

"Wait here, Cyndori," Nyssa says, stopping me outside of a tall spire of a building.

Cracks and mold run down the building's exterior, and underneath a pair of golden wings, capping the roof of what was once a place just like the Sunspire. Inside, I can sense strong presences gathered. Nyssa is stepping into a muffled, heated discussion.

Nyssa disappears inside, and I take a moment to look around. This is not Tranquillien as I remember it: a trading post and central seat of governance of the area of Eversong woods this side of the river. It is a broken, lonely and mournful refuge amongst a land of such misery; Tranquillien feels safe and warm by comparison. There are few people moving about, however. A faint echo of the wind gives an impression of emptiness more unsettling than the gloom outside.

"Coming past, man," someone says, his voice hoarse, approaching from behind to the spire.

I glance out of the corner of my eye, and draw my sword. "Scourge!" I alert Nyssa and the unsuspecting residents of Tranquillien.

My blade is at the throat of a zombie; the lower half of its legs and arms are all bone. Its head turns to me, mindful of my sword, but I cannot see its eyes, covered by two straps of dark leather crossed in an X over both eyes, and over and around its face. It is wearing tattered pieces of purple and black clothing, a cloth hood in perfect condition hangs from the back of its neck, and a sword and dagger off each hip.

"Now that's just insulting," it says.

I want to cut its throat, lop its head clean off, but cannot quite bring myself to the task. I find it strange the thing can talk…

"Oh, Blessed Light… Cyndori!" Nyssa calls to me. "Please do not kill the Forsaken."

"Again," it quips.

"Looks Scourge to me," I say and push its head back a little with my sword.

Two figures stand in the doorway of the spire, now: A regal-looking Blood Elf female dressed in a long skirt and stomach-revealing blouse, stands beside another Scourge; taller than the one I have by the neck, wearing heavy mail revealing bones and dead skin, and who stares at me with dead, yellow eyes set into a corpse's face. It has a long sword strapped over its back, and I believe it to be amused.

The taller Scourge laughs a laugh unheard outside of the mad upon inspection of our situation; dry and cracking, sounding as dead, rotting wood would. "One of your better soldiers, I see?" It speaks to the Blood Elf beside it, "Can't tell a Scourge from a Forsaken."

The bigger undead turns to the one I have at the neck. "In a way, he pays you a compliment, Keaver," he speaks the things name. "You are now a terrible menace and blight upon the lands, as you always wanted."

"I can now return to the grave at peace, High Executor," the thing called Keaver says sarcastically. It points at the sword I have on it. "Hey, man, do a rotten bag of flesh a favor, alright? I like my head attached without stitches."

"Cyndori…" Nyssa says, tilting her head at me.

I look between the two things, at Nyssa, and at the other Blood Elf in red dress. I do not know what is going on, but Nyssa fixes me with a stare I do not need to interpret. I bring my sword down to me side, letting the thing called Keaver go.

"You don't pay me enough for this," Keaver says to the other undead, going to its side and moving away from me, quickly.

"Payment would assume you have done anything worthwhile, lately, you puss-filled lout," his comrade says.

The Blood Elf in red clears her throat, and the two undead cease their banter. I receive the impression she is in charge, and perhaps—judging by the stature of the bigger undead to her—her command does not go wholly unquestioned.

"Kill each other after you've dealt with Deatholme, Executor Mavren," she says.

"We would, if Silvermoon would lend us more warm bodies," the undead known as, Mavren argues. "If they are not quite fully aware yet, we are surrounded and almost cut-off, out here. On their doorstep."

"Yes, yes, Executor, they and I have been made sufficiently aware, many times," she says and turns to Nyssa and myself, but primarily Nyssa. "These two are the reinforcements, as promised, Executor."

"Two old Blood Knights, and one that can't tell an enemy from a friend?" Mavren points out. "This cruel joke is a delight, but honestly, Dame?"

The Dame stares back at the Executor. "What did we agree upon, about professional courtesy and customs, High Executor Mavren?"

"Fine," Mavren says. "Dame Auriferous, I rephrase the question: What are we to do with just two people?"

I look at Nyssa, who is already a step ahead of me, stepping forward to interject herself into the conversation. "I beg your pardon, Dame Auriferous. I am Lady Nyssa, of the Blood Knights of Silvermoon; bearers of the Light." She stretches a hand out to me. "This is Initiate Dawnstrider. He is a new candidate, and has been indisposed overseas, the last few years," she says, covering up my earlier error.

I decide to make a new one, "We are here to destroy Deatholme, and fetch Dar'khan Drathir's head."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

We overlook Deatholme from the opposite slope of a ridge, artillery's distance from the dark and imposing front gate on the other side of a pruned back, plagued forest. The undead, Keaver, has led us here; muttering to itself the entire time about the High Executor's orders to keep us company and show us around; specifically to this overlook, so we might understood the perils we step into.

Nyssa and I lay on our stomachs beside each other; spyglasses peeked over the ridge top, surveying the grim fortifications of the risen dead. There is but one entrance; the high walls of Deatholme; great slabs of rock, far larger than any civilized structure of the living requires, are unassailable and covered in cobwebs spun by enormous spiders. Streams and puddles of green ooze leak from imperfections between the wall's rocks, seeping from the wall's foundation. A treacherous mountain backs Deatholme, offering little hope of taking the insurmountable fortress at the flanks or rear.

I move my view down to the front gate, counting a half-dozen phantasmal watchers composed of dark shadow, floating off the ground on each side of the high-arching front gate; open to the world, but impassible, still. Two squads of skeletons patrol the charred, dead ground where the Dead Scar meets Deatholme; scavenged pieces of intermixed plate and mail hung or stitched from their bones, shields and other devices held by rotten bone. Below them and down the noticeable slope, a horde of mindless zombies wanders without aim, adding more fodder to the Scourge's numbers.

A thin flash of emerald over the gate attracts my eyes, and new knowledge unspools into my mind. "It is protected."

"You noticed that, did you, man?" Keaver says. "Besides the dumb bags of flesh, bone and shadow down there, the Scourge barrier they've made _is_ a bit of a problem."

I am uncomfortable near the Forsaken. Nyssa explained to me how the Forsaken are former Scourge broken free from the Lich King, but I still do not care to have it at my back, insisting it lead when we walk, and resisting the reflex to turn against it every time it exits and enters my view.

"How do we bring it down?" Nyssa asks, trying different angles with her spyglass to view the barrier.

"That's the last of anyone's problems, right now," Keaver says. "Dar'khan has managed to infiltrate Scourge throughout the Ghostlands, turning every old village and outpost in this wonderfully dark place into a little outpost aligned in one way or another against us. Why you didn't see too many people, back there in Tranquillien. Most everyone is deployed, keeping the wolves on all sides from the flock."

"How do we know Dar'khan is even there?" Nyssa asks. "I would dislike learning too late; we struggle against a mere proxy."

"Dozens of battles are ongoing across the land, right now, and you are still worried about Dar'khan?" Keaver asks. "How should I know? No one has seen him in months. Maybe he did us a favor and took an extended vacation in his grave."

I bring my spyglass down and look back at the undead. "We have to weaken the Scourge's hold on this land. Relieve Tranquillien, so we might focus on Deatholme itself."

"Easier said than done, man," it says. "The High Executor is pissed just you two are our reinforcements. He had plans to have the newest batch try and retake Suncrown village—the place overlooking the bridge back to Eversong, and where we normally meet up with the Farstriders battling trolls to the east."

Nyssa brings her spyglass down and looks at me. "We still can."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, man," Keaver says, waving its hands in the air in denial, "I don't like your continuous use of that word: We. It tends to implicate, you know, me."

"Then, show Cyndori and myself, and we shall take the lead," Nyssa says.

Keaver looks between us, judging our expressions. "What are you, more insane than a babbling, brainless, newly-reanimated corpse? There are at least a dozen of those spider-things; the Neru—somethings."

A flash of new memory passes. "Nerubians," I say.

Keaver points at me. "Yeah, that's the things, man. Ugly, foul things, but they're all over Suncrown, is the point. Dar'khan moved them in two days ago. The High Executor is even more incensed about that; the Farstriders were supposed to keep the place open for us."

I meet Nyssa's green eyes. "A dozen seems good odds."

Keaver interrupts, "Whoa, wait, for one, it's all the way over there, on the other side of Tranquillien, and the peak," it says. "For the other, it's getting dark—well, darker—but there are these big cats stalking out there at night, man, with these green, glowing eyes, looking at me like a bone to pick clean. I don't have the meat on my bones for it."

"I am sure you are too rancid for their tastes," I say, pushing myself to my feet.

Keaver's decaying face contorts into a smirk. "Oh, har har har, very funny, elf. Keep bringing the corpse jokes. It's not like we don't get them _all_ the time."

"We should move on, boys," Nyssa chides us. "The task is still at hand, and the night does grow worse." She fixes Keaver with a look. "Show us to Suncrown, please?"

"It will be _dark_ soon," Keaver protests, "And why must I always lead, anyways? The cold, damp dark makes my bones creak and pop traitorously, and the sharp-teethed things out there have very sharp ears. Not to mention noses."

"In front of us, you are downwind," I say.

"Oh, now that's just cruel, man," Keaver says, and throws his bony hands and arms into the air in surrender. "Fine. Whatever." He waves to us. "Just don't expect me to help. That kind of work isn't in my job description."

* * *

Under the cover of darkness, the death rattle of the first Nerubian patroller gives away our approach, cut in half at the abdomen as it investigates an odd light on the outskirts of Suncrown village. Too late, do the minions of the Scourge realize our assault; flashes of golden light repel the darkness and lay the sun's fury upon foul abominations of the dark. I move through the dilapidated village with Nyssa; her from the east and I from the west, placing our enemy in a pincer between us; moving faster than they can react and adjust.

The creatures are indeed spider-like; as tall as any elf, and a lower abdomen covered in fur and carried by six legs, the Nerubian head and upper body remains upright, much like a centaur. Their many eyes reflect the light, and in the eyes of a pair of guards do I see myself; Light focused around my hand, pointing at them.

I destroy both parasites, and continue on.

A larger Nerubian skitters through the darkness, escaping through the village square, and I pursue, sensing a stronger enemy. It moves away from Nyssa, seeking escape.

I break from the cover and deeper shadows of the building, raising a hand up to a second floor loft, destroying it and the enemy hidden within, betrayed by their moving shadows. Rubble rains down from the explosion, but my eyes are set onto the fleeing Nerubian.

A new pattern emerges into my mind, and I shape it into use—blasting the creature in the back with a powerful concussive force. The Light's hammer crushes the creature into the ground, and from here, I hear limbs break. There will be no mercy.

The Nerubian tries to pull itself up on innumerable broken legs, but I lay into the back of its head with the blunt side of my sword, dazing it and dropping it back into the dirt where such foul things belong.

I prop my sword back over my shoulder and walk around the monster's front at a deliberate, unhurried pace, inspecting it with disgust in my heart. "Do you fear me, to run away so?" I ask it, leaning down to it, grabbing it by the base of its neck; I pull its face up to look at mine. "If you fear, you must feel emotion, and that makes you a sentient creature, unlike much of the Scourge, does it not?" I lean my face closer to it's; my green eyes reflect back eight times over within the Nerubian's dark circles. "And if you feel emotion, then you must feel pain…"

It clicks at me in its own indecipherable language, but I know it understands what I say. I am, however, intent to discover if it can speak Common.

I yank its head up at an uncomfortable angle and surge vindictive fire of the Light through my arm and hand. It screams in agony. My hand and arm act as a free conduit of energy, roasting the Nerubian alive from the inside out. The stench of cooked meat is terrible, but I keep on, taking sadistic pleasure along with my own slice of retribution from its hide. Two of its eight eyes boil up and pop, oozing boiling puss down its face, and only then do I cease its torment. The six remaining eyes are still useful to me.

It slumps back to the ground, wheezing and coughing. A rasped voice speaks Common, "You are a…terrible…Light wielder." It coughs up fluid onto my hand to spite me, and I surge energy through it again. It loses another eye.

I cease the flow, and again it collapses from shock raising its body rigid. "Who are you…to do this…elf?" It asks, its intakes of breath now sound painful and filled with fluid. "Who are you…to justify this…torture?" It heaves for breath. "Are you not…the Light…or are you…one of us?" It chitters with its mandibles, and I bring the hilt of my sword down, breaking them off so it can no longer speak.

I raise my sword back up to strike it down, but as I look up, I see Nyssa standing there, alone, in the dark, surrounded by an aura of light. She stares at me from behind her helmet, and I cannot see what judgment those green eyes contain.

"It is Scourge," I say to her. "It deserves nothing."

"You are a Blood Knight, Cyndori," she replies. "You have a responsibility to uphold; to carry on as a beacon of the inherent goodness and strength with which the Light illuminates us all."

"I never swore an oath," I say. "There is no agreement binding me to the rules of your Light, or to your chosen way of life." The creature in my grasp regains its strength with each passing moment.

Nyssa seems to fade further into the distance from me, but still I hear her speak clearly, "Is this what you want to become, Cyndori Dawnstrider? An elf no better than any Scourge; deciding guilt, innocence and punishment without regard of anything but your own tormented sense of righteousness?"

I hold my sword still, rose over the Nerubian's head. Nyssa fades further from me, but I remember what M'uru spoke to me through linked minds, and turn my eyes back down to face the enemy.

"No," I say. "I am neither judge nor jury, Nyssa. I am but the darkness before the dawn, the haunt plaguing the twisted nightmares of demon and undead, and the maliciousness which lurks amongst the shadow of shadows."

I raise my sword's tip into the air, instead, offering it and the Nerubian in my grasp to the Light's favor. "Cast into the Light's judgment." The blade burns red. "Guilty."

I let my sword fall, and the Light's hammer falls with it. The Nerubian dies screaming, burning, melting—a dark soul incinerated within a rotten husk. Its charred corpse twitches and curls into an ash-flaked ball.

I stand up straight—the blackened form glowing with remnants of golden fire at my feet—and meet eyes with Nyssa.

"I am the Light's executioner."

I kick the body, and it disintegrates into a thousand cinders, floating, dancing through the fetid air. The world becomes a better place, one corpse at a time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Nyssa stands on the other side of the Nerubian's remaining pile of glowing ashes. "This is not how the Light works, Cyndori," she says. "The Light is not a weapon of vengeance. The Light is a way. It is a pursuit of peace, within oneself and with others." She points down at the Scourge's remnants. "This is not that, Cyndori. This is anger. Anger destroys, Cyndori; you, your enemy, your home…"

"Yet I will never be at peace…" I reply. "These bastards tore my peace away from me, and left me only anger." I clinch my fist tight at my side, feeling the boil of hate again in my chest and arms as the memories dredge up from murky shallows. Light escapes through the cracks in my fist. "With this anger, and this pursuit of peace for others, I can only destroy. This must be the right path; less the grace of the Light would abandon me."

"I wish the Light _would_ abandon you," she says, a hint of sadness in her voice. "I wish it to prove you wrong. I do not want to live in a world where the Light, the purest force of good I have ever known, is but a weapon wielded by any who pursue a path they believe right." She shakes her head. "The Light is better than that… The Light…"

"Does not care," I finish for her. "One path is as well as any, so long as the pursuer believes in the good the path leads towards."

She fixes me with a cold stare. "Are you good?" She asks. "Can you call this good? What you did here was murder."

"And what you do as a Blood Knight is any better?"

"My enemies do not suffer needlessly, Cyndori," she says, and I feel as perhaps a line is soon crossed. "There is a difference between killing out of necessity, and killing because you enjoy it." She throws her hand across her body and behind her with vehemence. "You made it feel unnecessary pain. Yes, it was a Scourge, but it does not excuse you from your own actions. Blood Knights must kill, but we must do so with a respect for the life taken, and with respect for those who look on and take after our example. We have to be better than the darkness we stare into, Cyndori. The Light pierces the abyss; it does not fall into it."

"I never said I was a Blood Knight, Nyssa," I say as calmly as possible.

"Then you are a parasite," she says. "You take from the Naaru the greatest gift, and corrupt it to your own selfish needs." She draws her sword and points it at me. "Tell me, Cyndori Dawnstrider, why I should not destroy the shadow of an elf stood before me; one who takes from us all our hope, while wearing a mask of the living?"

I look onto the point of her sword, and know all could come to an end with the wrong words. "The Naaru, M'uru, gave me this strength," I say. "I take whole-heartedly and of excess, because I believe there is need for one such as me." I step closer to her. "Nyssa, the world needs Blood Knights like you. You are strong, noble, good of heart, and sound of mind. You are the steady shield of Silvermoon, and I can never take your place.

"However, understand, please, our people—your people—need of two kinds: Those like you, who shine brilliantly as paragons and pillars to be depended upon, and held in trust to defend the weak, the innocent, and the ideals, beliefs and morals of society. Then there are those like me: I have nothing. I am nothing, compared to you. The Light beckons to me. It asks for defenders and upholders, and then it asks for those who would go forward, to destroy everyone and everything stood against those of the shielded arm. That is who I have chosen to be; the executioner's sword, guided by the Light, spilling the blood of those who would spill the blood of the innocent; staring into the darkness from the darkness, because I have no further to fall from the grace of the Light and its carried promise of peace.

"I do not ask for your forgiveness, Nyssa. I would not forgive myself for my own actions, and I should not be forgiven, for it would make a mockery of everything you strive for. I just ask for your guidance and direction. I do not understand this strange, new world, but point me in the right direction, as the images in my head do me now, and I shall gladly soil my hands in the necessary blood and bile of those stood against you, so you and those you protect do not have to."

Nyssa stares at me from behind her helmet. I can only see their green light, fueled by demonic energy satiating both our body's woeful magic addictions, and worry of an unfavorable decision. I will not raise my sword in my defense, if she so chooses. If I have become such a monster, unknown to my own self-perception, then it would be right to die.

Nyssa's sword moves just an inch, up to point between my eyes. "Then, you have decided this is your path?" She finally asks.

I nod. "By the memory of the Sunwell, I swear, I will do anything to destroy those responsible for this plague of undeath." I bow my head slightly towards her. "Use me. I am no longer an elf; I have no home, no family, no joy and no hope. I am now just a weapon. Light is at my back, but rage drives me."

"No," she says, and lowers her sword. "You are not just a weapon. You are Cyndori Dawnstrider." She sheathes her sword and pulls off her helmet to look at me with soft, green eyes. "Do not ever forget who you are; I will not allow it, and I will not allow any under my charge to lose themselves to such despair." She walks forward to me, our two auras of light meeting and joining forces to push back the darkness.

Nyssa raises a finger and points at my face, square between the eyes, once more, and speaks words I will never forget, "You are not alone. The Light is with you, and so am I. Together, with the help of our friends and allies, you will have your revenge, along with our people's. We shall all see to it, Light bless us."

* * *

We walk the path out of Suncrown. The village quiet, now. The Nerubian's chitters silenced. Cracks of stone walls and platforms falling further into ruin break the quiet shared between Nyssa and myself; the further destruction of the once elvish inhabitance helped along by our actions, this night.

I glance out of the corner of my eye, noticing a shape in the shadows, a sensible energy of reanimated life, and a rotten smell. "I see you are committed to your work ethics, Keaver."

Nyssa looks over; I suspect by her reaction, not noticing until just now, the Forsaken lurking at the perimeter of the village, watched over our battle, but abstained from participating. There are more sensible, however…

"You have your thing, man," it says, "I have mine." It moves out of the shadows and steps to the side, motioning behind it to the figures I can sense behind him, better veiled in the darkness, but given away by the immaterial. "Look what I found," it says.

Two elves emerge from the shadow of a tree; their forms further masked by light-absorbing cloaks made of an enchanted weave: An older, haggard-faced and gray-haired male elf in thick leather armor stands beside a much younger, red-haired elf, looking and carrying herself with the air of an impatient novice on the verge of becoming a cynical veteran.

I recognize their kind by the experience and degree of wariness for the world on their bodies and in their eyes: Farstriders, rangers, and once my people.

I squint, staring harder at the male. "Helios, is that you?"

The gray-haired elf comes closer. Our green eyes are lights in the darkness of Ghostlands night as he inspects me as I inspect him. "Captain Dawnstrider?" Helios answers. "You can't be serious?"

I laugh and close the distance, grabbing the elf's hand for a shake. I have found again an old friend and comrade. "As death," I say, finding myself smiling. "But please, I am just Cyndori, now."

Helios looks me from boot to skull. His brow furrows with confusion. "I see…," he says, sounding as stunned as I am. "I must admit, I never expected to see you in the trappings of a Blood Knight." He puts his hands on his hips, sizing me up. "What happened to you? Last I heard, you retired."

"It is a rather long story, friend," I say, doing my best to avoid the pain of a retelling. "Let us just say, we fight on the same side, for the same cause, once more."

"I'm glad to have you," Helios says, turning his head to look back at Suncrown village. "After seeing the aftermath of the destruction you two laid upon the Scourge, back there, I think things might start to look up."

"I will do everything I can, Helios," I say. "Lady Nyssa and I are here for Dar'khan's head." I nod back to the village behind us. "This was just the beginning. There will be more. We will carry the Light into the darkness, expose the vermin hiding within, and eradicate them."

He grins, and I grin in return; old war buddies at heart. I remember what Nyssa said, about how we all shall see to this battle, and feel it become a little bit truer. As if she knows I thought her name, Nyssa looks up at me. I cannot tell what she is thinking.

The younger Farstrider clears her throat. "Captain, our duties…?" She has a sweet smile, yet it is a lie. I know the type: hard-charging young Farstriders; motivated and determined, but as difficult to control as any stallion. They either accomplish themselves with great honors, or die trying and with great zeal. Training one was always a challenge.

"'Captain'?" I ask, inquiring at Helios. "Why, when I saw you last, you were just a party leader."

He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed, but there is something else. "I wish I could say it was all merit," he says. "There have been more open positions than I would like, as of late. Not to mention yours."

"I dislike breaking up your old war buddy party, Cyndori," Nyssa says with more tact than most others could manage, "but I believe we all have matters to attend to of the upmost and time-sensitive natures."

The young Farstrider and Nyssa exchange telling glances, and Keaver waits in the background, removed from our conversation, picking through a Nerubian corpse for loot. The night does draw on.

"Right," Helios says. "Send our regards to the Dame, and our apologies for letting the place fall. We've had issues of our own with the troll populace, but it'll not happen again, I assure you. We'll trap Suncrown so densely; a hundred rogues will die trying to infiltrate a single yard."

"Do you need any help?" Nyssa asks.

Helios shakes his head. "No," he says. "We are surrounded, outnumbered, outarmed and our supplies dwindle."

"But you have them right where you want them, Farstrider?" I finish for him.

Both Farstriders smile and Helios says with a nod, "Always."

"We will leave it to you, then, Captain," Nyssa says. "I will see if the Dame can be convinced to send food and arrows."

"No need," Helios replies, but turns to his junior, beckoning with a hand. "We do, however, have something for the Dame. Something quite special." The younger produces a thick book from her pack. "Found it on a scouting mission to the northeast of our lodge," he explains. "Apparently, Dar'khan didn't do a very good job packing up all of his things before he moved into his dreary new abode."

"What is it?" I ask, but do not touch the book, letting Nyssa hold it. I do not trust myself enough to hold something Helios keeps with such caution.

"It is the journal of an elf of incredible arrogance and ego," Helios says, "the traitor, Dar'khan Drathir." He nods at us. "Take it back with you. Perhaps there is some information to be gleaned from its contents that an archivist or arcanist of Silvermoon can decipher."

"Your Farstriders do Silvermoon proud, once more, Captain Helios," I compliment.

"They're your Farstriders, too, _Captain_ Dawnstrider," he replies. "I'm not sure what set off this Blood Knight bend, and I think I might not wish to know, but you are welcome at our lodges, always. Stop by when this is all over. We should catch up."

I nod. "We shall."

Captain Helios smiles, looks at his junior Farstrider, up at the night sky, and then finally, sets green eyes onto Nyssa and myself with an indrawn and exhaled breath, content. "The wind is changing," he speaks. "Can you feel it still in your bones and soul, old friend? It whispers, of changing fortunes and better days." The elf nods at us. "I believe tonight is the night we ball our fists up tight, and make ready to bloody the nose of the Scourge."

"Bloody?" I ask with a smile on my face. My fist raised into the air, glows with the Light. "I intend to smear them to the point nothing suitable remains for resurrection."

* * *

Journal in Nyssa's hand, Keaver leading ahead, and with the sight of High Executor Mavren waiting upon the ruined spire's steps, we return to Tranquillien. Mavren speaks out of earshot, and Dame Auriferous steps outside and beside him, looking tired and impatient.

Mavren and Keaver lock whatever passes for eyes for the two undead creatures. "You are terrible at dying out there, Keaver, you know that?" Mavren asks.

Keaver lowers into a sweeping bow on the verge of a curtsy. "I try my best, Executor, but apparently I am in need of practice."

"I'll give you practice…" Mavren mutters, but the Dame steps in to greet Nyssa and myself, interrupting the Forsaken.

"We saw the flashes of light on the horizon from here," the Dame says. "It was quite the show." She looks between us two. "I assume your unharmed return signifies good news?"

We relay the story of what happened, without the torturing of the Nerubian. Neither the Dame nor Executor seems impressed with our story, however. Not at least, until Nyssa shows them the journal.

The Dame is quick to take it from Nyssa's hands. "This is an incredible find," the Dame remarks. "The Farstriders should be commended."

"Tomber is expecting another dragonhawk supply flight, tonight," Mavren advises her. "We should have it on there, topmost priority."

The Dame nods her consent. Opening the book up, she flips through the pages, reading bits and pieces from it.

"Anything of interest?" I ask. My curiosity is overwhelming.

She shuts the book with finality. "Perhaps nothing," the Dame says. "Perhaps an insight, a key, a loose end Dar'khan has left for us to pull upon." She looks up at us. "Nonetheless, we will have to wait and see. You, on the other hand, have earned a good night's rest, I should say."

High Executor Mavren hooks a bony finger across the road, to a beaten and broken, vine and mold-covered, former town hall. "It is near-empty, but safe and as warm as anywhere," it says. "I would not recommend the grub."

There is queasiness in my stomach. I believe 'grub' to be literal.

* * *

I do not try the grub. Instead, Nyssa and I find a spot by the cooking fire. I have to drag Keaver outside by its neck for trying to share the same spot as us, since I will not allow it to walk behind me, much less rest in the same room. Nyssa looks on with concern, but there are more fires burning for warmth in the hall. Keaver will be fine.

Sleep comes the moment my eyes shut. The fatigue built up over a long day, full of surprises, battle and a new throbbing in my veins—the Light taken from the Naaru, M'uru, coursing through me, I descend once more into the nightmare.

* * *

I am on the beach, once more, the ocean at my back, fighting against an endless wave of Scourge underneath blood red skies. Scourge corpses lay all around my feet, yet I am tiring. Soon, the weight of their numbers will crush me, but I refuse to give up. Not until I die on my feet, with as many corpses as I can take with me.

I hear the deep, booming blast of a horn near, look up over the mass of Scourge gathered against the last living, and see Him. The Death Knight and former prince of Lordaeron, Arthas Menethil, looks on from the wood line. His face is ashen, and his long hair draped back out of his helmet is old and white. Glowing azure, magic-infused eyes look upon me, and I return the stare.

With a wave of his hand, his Scourge army comes to a stop. Arthas walks through them, his Scourge parting away from his presence. The traitor of the living approaches, sword drawn, and I raise my own and charge to meet him.

* * *

At the point of impact, I feel something pull me away from the battle. As I open my eyes, I realize it is Nyssa, her hand firm on my shoulder and staring down at me with great worry. It is still dark outside.

"You should not do that," I say, groggy and shaken still from the adrenaline memory fresh in my mind and body. "I am not sure I can control my actions, at this point of awakening."

"You are sweating cold," she says. "You speak in your sleep, but I cannot decipher what you are saying." She looks worried, but it is nothing new to me.

"Do not worry," I say. "It is not an uncommon occurrence, for me. You may have to become used to it, if we continue this campaign."

She pulls back just a bit, but still looks concerned, if not a little frightened. I wonder if my nightmares are that bad.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Nyssa asks.

I shake my head. "No. It is nothing you should worry about."

Nyssa looks lost for words for a moment. She pulls an empty crate up to the side of my bedding to sit on. "Cyndori, whatever this is; whatever haunts you, you can talk to me about it," she says, her voice softened, below the earshot of casual eavesdroppers. "You are not the only one to suffer from the Scourge." She opens her mouth to say something, chokes back on it, looks at me, and then decides to say it, "I have nightmares, too."

I look into her face, now. There I can see the same fear I feel, remembering those images in the darkest hours of a traumatized mind.

"Not every night," she says, "but, when I do dream, I do not dream about good and pleasant things. It is always the same nightmare, over and over, night in and night out. The Scourge are coming up the Dead Scar: Winged gargoyles, giant abominations, swarms of skeletons and masses of ghouls, Cyndori, all moving in slow, frightful motion towards me. And I am all alone."

She looks down upon me, a forced smile on her face. "Now what nightmare lingers with Cyndori Dawnstrider so, to keep an elf from ever a whole night's rest? The same elf that I saw, tonight, stare a Scourge in the face and made it fear."

I meet her eyes, my mind tumbling in thought, but I cannot bring myself to it. "I am sorry they afflict you so, Nyssa," I say. "But they are mine and mine only to worry over. You have greater concerns than the issues of an elf who cannot let go."

She puts me under a stern stare. "Cyndori, you are my concern, because you are my charge. You are a living, feeling elf, but as you said yourself; you are a weapon, as well. The same as I. If it affects either of our ability to rest for the next day's fight, then it becomes a concern."

I try to smile at her. I am not sure if I succeed. "I will be ready, Nyssa. I can promise you that. I will not let mere nightmares distract from our task."

"Good," she says. "However, Cyndori?" She prompts, and I look back up at her from where my eyes and mind have faded. "I will be here. Just say the words."

I nod at her and lay my head back down. As my eyes close once more, the last thing I see before my trip through the darkness, once more; is Nyssa standing by my bedding, watching over me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

I awake to the dim light of a Ghostlands day, the muffled sounds of voices, and the rustling and rattling of boots, carriages and equipment outside. Looking over, I do not see Nyssa in her bedding; her blankets and canvas sack of a pillow folded and squared to perfection to the side and out of the way. A carriage pulled by a pair of colorful hawkstriders passes outside, and I pull myself out of bed, wondering what time it is, and why new life seems to have come to Tranquillien.

Dressed, I step outside and stop on the perch of the abandoned town hall, converted to an inn and temporary mess. Fresh faced and uniformed elves stand around outside, wearing red mail with tall shield and swords; they stare around, looking uncomfortable, hiding their nervousness. The carriage that passed by a few moments earlier continues down the road, its load heavy and spilling out of the back—a young elf female riding on the back gate to hold down boxes—the carriage turns to the south east; past torn tents, and up an inclined road worn out of the side of the peak, at the foot of which Tranquillien resides.

I look across the road, to the broken spire headquarters of the Dame and High Executor, and see Nyssa, standing noble and commanding in her crimson plate; her tall shield strapped to her back, sword, and helm hanging off her hips. She notices me out of the corner of her eye, turns, and waves to me, beckoning me over to the group of elves with whom she now speaks.

"Good morning, Dawnstrider," Nyssa greets with professional courtesy as I approach.

I nod my head towards the group out of due respect and Nyssa's indicated desire for formalities. "Good morning, Lady Nyssa," I reply, and stand by her side and just a little bit behind, taking my formal position to a superior.

The white-haired, older elf Nyssa was just speaking at lengths with inspects me, as I inspect him. His colleagues are younger, wearing colorful garbs of gold and blue, maroon, and lavender and gold between them—two males and a female. However, this older elf—not much older than I—carries no weapon, and wears a robe of deep, blood red, offset by a long kilt of black and gray down to his ankles. He has determined eyes, and a presence of one who has undoubtly seen as much or worse as any elf his age.

Nyssa notices, and moves to introductions. "This is Magister Kaendris, Initiate Dawnstrider," she says of the white-haired elf. "His group arrives from Silvermoon this morning, to assist in the struggle with Deatholme."

Magister Kaendris bows his head towards Nyssa and I. "We wouldn't be here, if it weren't for your actions at Suncrown, and the recovery of Dar'khan's journal," he says. "Magisters and Farstriders do not always see eye-to-eye, but the Farstriders are wise to have found such a thing, and had it brought to Silvermoon."

"You have researched it, then?" I ask.

"We have," Kaendris says, "and we believe there may be a method of bringing down the Scourge barrier, and Dar'khan himself; barring it can be found." The elves behind him straighten up and listen in to the conversation. "That carriage you saw back there makes its way to a ley line focal point in this area: the Sanctum of the Sun. We will set up shop there with a staff and a presence of guardians, to expedite research on the matter."

"We will help you," I offer, but Nyssa clears her throat, reminding me of my place in such formal settings. "If that is what is intended," I correct myself.

Kaendris casts a glance to the headquarters of the Dame and High Executor; the two inside, still, having another heated conversation that keeps us waiting. "You have other issues to attend to, I believe."

As if on cue, Dame Auriferous steps outside, an annoyed look on her face. "My apologies for keeping you waiting," she says. "Last minute details, of course." She waves for us to follow and goes back inside.

Magister Kaendris gestures with his hand; his colleagues nod in response, continuing whatever conversation engrossed them prior. The Magister heads inside, and Nyssa follows. I wait in my place, but Nyssa stops, turns around, and raises an eyebrow at me. I rush to catch up, following her into a meeting of the minds.

* * *

I am surprised to see Keaver already inside, leaned up against a wall, its exposed bone arms crossed over its chest, the undead talks in whispers to a third undead behind the High Executor, Mavren. Across a cracked granite patio table, covered in a map of Ghostland—rocks strategically placed indicating points and places of interest—Dame Auriferous takes her place; a blonde elf female backs her, paper, quill and a book in hand. Magister Kaendris is alone as he takes his place on the far side of the table, and Nyssa and I take the side of the table closest to the doorway. I dare to test my place, standing beside Nyssa at the table, and no one complains.

High Executor Mavren begins, stepping out of his place, "Today is a good day," it says. "And when a Forsaken says it is a good day, then it means it is a terrible day, for Dar'khan and Deatholme." The Executor's dry-throated cackle is the only warning given, driving a knife through a rock to the west of Deatholme, splitting it in two. "Today, we go on the offensive." It points at the split rock. "That is Windrunner Spire. Dar'khan's second fortress, formerly a High Elf inhabitance, raised high and lording over all of the Ghostlands, he sees all of the western expanses of Ghostland from his cursed banshees and enthralled necromancers inhabiting it." Mavren throws clinched hands in the air, loosing another cackle. "It will be ours."

The Dame tends to her disgust at the usurping by tending to the table; straightening the split rock and putting it neatly back over its place on the map. I catch the look she gives the High Executor, and know they will again have words after we leave.

"It will not be as simple as the High Executor says," the Dame says, taking her time, keeping us waiting while she fixes the map. "Dar'khan's Nerubians inhabited Suncrown do not share the same telepathic link as the more common Scourge, therefore, Dar'khan does not yet know his efforts at enclosing Tranquillien were stopped. At least, not just yet; assuming no Nerubians escaped."

"None did," I say with absolute confidence.

Nyssa says nothing to contradict me, nor shows any sign I stepped out of line, again. The Dame looks over both of us, but continues with the map. "So then, we come to this point with golden opportunity: Dar'khan believes we are weakened and on the defensive, still," the Dame says, tapping on the map to the east and north of the rock representing Windrunner Spire. "The Scourge and their allies will not be on the alert for any movement here, in the west."

The Dame points two fingers at the rocks north of Windrunner Spire. "The villages of Goldenmist and Windrunner," she says. "Our forces were drawn back to the perimeter of Tranquillien, losing these locations, but we can take those villages back. It will be a symbolic blow to Scourge presence in the Ghostland, and give us outposts to work out of; once more reinforcements arrive from Silvermoon."

"Your pardon, Dame," Nyssa interrupts, "but we expect further reinforcements?"

"Of course," High Executor Mavren replies. "This is the big push Undercity and the Dark Lady herself have been waiting for. Forsaken forces will arrive soon. Without Windrunner Spire and the entire western frontier of Ghostland, half of the battle will already be won."

"And all of it depends on taking Windrunner Spire, in the midst of this western offensive?" I ask, pointing to the split rock indicating the fortress. I look over at Magister Kaendris. "And the Scourge barrier, on our new allies?"

"We'll find the method to bring the Scourge barrier down," Kaendria says. "You two have the more difficult task." He looks at Nyssa and me as he says that.

Of course, they must have talked about this while I was still asleep. Which, Nyssa must have felt pity on me, and let me sleep longer than necessary. Nonetheless… "Windrunner Spire falls onto us, then?" I ask the Dame, looking up between the Dame and High Executor.

"Keaver will go with you," Mavren adds, pointing a bony finger behind him.

"Of course," Keaver says, not one bit confident, and with many volumes of sarcasm dripping.

"How many?" I ask.

"At least two dozen heads of banshee and living filth working for Dar'khan," Mavren says. "It will be a difficult assault; uphill, and the spire is multi-levelled." The High Executor fixes us with yellow eyes. "If you are not up for it, we can always wait on an army, but this opportunity is quite disgustingly ripe."

"I do not believe that will be necessary," Nyssa says and smiles at me.

The High Executor stares at me, seeking my input. "Good odds," I say. "When do we begin?"

* * *

The offensive is set for dusk, when the strangest light, neither bright nor dark, best conceals the shadows of elf and undead through the dead woods of the Ghostland from the eyes of Dar'khan's minions at the spire and the watchouts of the villages below. Scouts move into place, while a small army awaits the assault on Windrunner Spire, to spring from Tranquillien, across the Dead Scar, and against the forces of the Scourge in the west.

Timing is crucial. To cross the Dead Scar and meet all of the undead creatures milling upon and marching up into Eversong, would signal Dar'khan through his telepathic link with his mindless minions. Nyssa, Keaver and I subvert this, taking a much longer route around—north out of Tranquillien, and on a small boat west down the Elrendar River splitting the lands of life and death, carried by the river's current, silent as the death and redeath that would occur this night, into the Great Sea to take Windrunner Spire from behind.

We arrive on shore, the dim white light of the moon illuminating through a clear, star-lit sky, freed from the morbid overhang of dead and dying trees and the gloom permeated deeper into the land. The spire stands tall in front of us, built onto a shoreline cliff, the highest point of it hidden in the darkness at such a great height.

A crab's shelled legs clicks as it moves across the shore. The white noise of the waves washing up and receding joins with the natural noise of the world and life uncorrupted, creating a surreal backdrop of ambient noise as we stare up, over a hundred feet above us, at our task, and recognize this will not be a trivial matter.

"You know, man," Keaver whispers, "The front door might be easier. In hindsight, of course."

The cliff below the spire will be difficult, and I said nothing to them of the plan in my mind to go from cliff to spire, and then the assault itself. However, we have rope, and what proves difficult by Blood Knight's force of arms, grows easier doing the unexpected as a Farstrider: Scaling the spire from where most mortals would consider insurmountable, and hitting with such unexpected force, the Scourge's strength of odds becomes a null point by the time they grasp their situation.

"I am not sure about this, Cyndori," Nyssa says, her doubt justified. She wears no armor. The sound and weight would imperil us all.

"Neither am I," I answer, truthful, and toss the first hooked rope into the cliffs. It has been a while since I last used a rope for tying off a horse; say nothing of scaling a sheer cliff.

* * *

The climb is long and tiring, but the night is cool and the ocean glimmering below, reflecting the moon upon its surface, brings a constant breeze tinged with salt and a howling of wind and subtle flow of water disguising our movements. With each new plant of a climbing hook and tossing of a new rope, I halt our ascent and wait, listening to the sound of footfalls stopping and the shadows against the spire of a watcher noticing the sounds of our climb.

Finally, a half-hour after we began, I pull myself up the last few feet and wait; a living servant of Dar'khan is above us, and I hope he does not notice our rope tossed over the lower of the two platforms extended out over the shore in a half-circle from the spire. I hear the collaborator yawn and scratch himself, but he will not move, and I fear Nyssa will tire if left this close to our goal while made to wait.

I signal down to Keaver, against my better judgment, and help it climb up the rope, over me—its bony feet digging into my shoulder as he goes. I give the undead credit; it is unfazed by the climb and moves with admirable quiet, although, the former may come from a lack of need for indrawn breath. Keaver pulls himself up from behind the living, disappearing from sight. A moment later, the servant makes a muffled noise and blood spills over the side. Another moment later, the corpse falls from the side; a long distance I am sure he will suffer for his treachery in the last throes of life, until the ground ends it.

Keaver, a smug smirk on its decaying face, reaches a skeletal hand out to me. I consider it for a moment, deciding a moment of ambivalence can be spared for the Forsaken, and take Keaver's offered hand; coming up onto the platform on my knees and looking around for more of the Scourge's minions. I say nothing in gratitude to Keaver; actions shall suffice. We both help a very tired Nyssa up.

"That seemed…" Nyssa says in a low whisper, clawing for breath. "Excessive. Your Farstriders are deranged to come up with such things."

I turn my head and senses, probing the immobile and mobile shadows, gauging the presence of Scourge. "Keaver did well on the climb."

Nyssa lies on her stomach, resting, catching her breath. "Keaver is dead," she says. "And short a few pounds of redundant flesh."

"Hello," Keaver asks, "dead guy still here. I just rolled out of my grave; not in it."

I unhook the rope from around the platform and eye the platform above it, determining the distance and where the Scourge are above us. "Nyssa," I say, "can you take the upper platform?" I start spinning the hook end of the rope around to build momentum for a toss. "I will take this platform, if Keaver can deal with the front gate."

Nyssa looks up at the platform and grimaces. This is obviously not in the Blood Knight training regime. "Fair enough," she says. "That would mean I am the signaler, then?"

I nod. "We will be ready when you are." and toss the rope as quiet as possible up over the platform, holding my breath in anticipation, watching it clear the other side and come back down. The banshee floated past where the rope landed does not notice.

"We, we, we," Keaver says. "Do I ever get a vote in this committee, man?"

"There is but two living guarding the spire's gate," I say off-hand to the undead.

"The ayes have it," Keaver remarks, and disappears into the shadows. Easy is the task of leading the lazy, when there is a hard choice, and a harder choice.

I help Nyssa to climb, ensuring she makes it to the top before turning back to my platform. Looking in both directions, a banshee begins a patrol from one direction; while from the other side, a living necromancer begins theirs. I wonder if either expects the living Keaver tossed over the side to return, and betting upon this, decide to use it to my advantage. The banshee approaches from the direction the dead living walked, and I head towards it with a slow, carefree stride, attempting to emulate the walk of one just going about their business. My eyes and senses upwards, waiting for Nyssa.

A few feet from a distance the banshee might realize the dissimilarities between a human necromancer and an elf Blood Knight, I feel Nyssa's Light energy surge. I attack as the white-haired and robed banshee's head jerks up at a sudden burst of bright, golden light, and then brings her head back down, realizing mortal danger lay closer, losing her head to my blade.

The signal sent across the Ghostlands: a flare of Holy Light in the darkness and above the spire cues the forces of Tranquillien to begin their attack.

I sprint across the platform, to the enclave of banshees and living standing about outside, surprised, trying to understand how an attack came from inside the spire itself. I do not give them the time to sort it out, cleaving through the group and continuing inside. I have no mercy for those rolling out of cots inside the spire itself, cutting down those who were close enough, and saving time by burning the rest with the Light's fire. Living or unliving, it matters not. All are Scourge, and all are to pay.

I knock down a wooden door on the other side of the inner chambers of the spire, leading to the other side of the platform from where my assault began. A banshee is on one side, and I reach a hand out to exorcise her from existence. A disoriented and confused human woman, a necromancer by the dark skin and black tattoos on a face half-veiled in a mask, makes a wrong turn trying to escape the carnage we unleash upon those who visit such carnage upon the innocent. There is no moral higher ground. There is only the physical ground below the spire, of to which I toss her.

I glance across the platform, expecting to see no Scourge still moving, but frustration rises, seeing a banshee floating away from me; or not away from me, I notice, as her attention turns upwards, to where Nyssa carves her way through a pair of necromancers. I unleash a hammer of the Light upon the banshee, the energetic embodiment flipping end-over-end and into the back of the banshee, exploding with satisfying force, destroying the platform she stood upon, as well. The stone structure, levitated by magic, loses its stability and falls apart square by square. To my growing horror, I realize the platform above it—the platform Nyssa is on—falls apart along with the one I destroyed.

Nyssa's cry of surprise strikes cold into my gut and spine. The platform falls out from under Nyssa's feet, and she falls through with her opponents, using a protection spell to ward herself from the platforms smashing together that smear the necromancers, she continues through to the ground.

I leap across the gap from my platform, hoping—nay, demanding upon gravity—to fall faster. The ground seems so much closer now than when we climbed. The wind whipping past, I can see the bodies of the living we have killed, and feel a horrible sense of guilt and hopelessness that I might not make it to Nyssa's hand outstretched to mine in time. The fall would be lethal to us both, but I cannot let her fall for my actions.

The ground is so close; I can see the skittering crab, once again. The glimmering water below shines its light into my eyes, leaving a black scar in my retina, but I feel the tips of Nyssa's fingers and make one last effort, wrapping my hand around hers and pulling her in close.

We reach the ground with tons of rubble not far behind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine  
**

Suffocating darkness encases us, caught under an undeterminable mass of rubble; but I have Nyssa, and we are for the moment, safe. Protected by a dimly shimmering divine barrier I project over us both with guilt-ridden determination to atone for my mistake, I cannot much move, bearing the barrier and what feels as tons of stone to the drain of Light within and without I.

Nyssa sits leaned against me, her legs pulled in tight, compacting herself so we both may fit. I feel an hour has passed—the sense of time subjective in a coffin like this—yet Nyssa has said not a word, and neither have I. I am not fool enough to try and reconcile just yet, suspecting she knows how we came to this point, and the mistake made compounding upon others made against her.

Outside, I believe once or twice I have heard voices, and felt something or someone attempt to break through the rubble. However, as the time in this cave of my own doing passes, the doubt of my imagination building false hopes continues to grow. I would not fault Keaver for not noticing our fall, nor would I fault anyone for believing us dead, buried under more weight than any mortal has right to survive, but so long as the Light is with me, I will not give up hope nor the fight to keep Nyssa alive.

I can sense Nyssa moving, her face and body in shadow outline, and squint against a bright flame of light come to life in both her hands. Nyssa looks up at me, the light in her hand a steady, heatless lantern. "Look upon this, Cyndori Dawnstrider," she says, and raises the light closer for my inspection. "What do you see?"

What the light is unravels in my mind. "An orb of the Light," I answer.

"It is simple, is it not?" She asks, turning the orb over in her hand and maintaining its stability. "This infinitesimal outlet of the Light, shaped into a stable form, charged through a steady stream from the practitioner." She looks up at me. "This, Cyndori, is the first skill every Paladin of the Silver Hand learns."

"I did not know," I admit, regretful, saying more than the meager words.

"Do not apologize," she says. "I am not mad at you, Cyndori. I…" she hesitates for a moment. "I forget who you are."

Her words hurt, tearing open an inner wound, exposing the regret I now feel to the deeper fear of failure; of Nyssa, of the family I could not protect. Knowing I let her down again—the one person I have met who accepts me and my many flaws—almost killing her through carelessness and thoughtless anger, I do not deserve her vast, admirable patience and understanding.

"I do not want to be a monster, Nyssa," I say. "I am trying, but—"

She stops me from my excuses with a raised hand, keeping her orb stable with just the other. "You are not yet a monster, Cyndori," she says. "I have not given up on you, and the day I do, is the day I strike you down myself." She fixes me with stern eyes, fel green eyes reflecting the light in her hands raised to my chest. "That is a promise, and there is one promise I would like you to make; for me, but for yourself, as well."

"What is it?"

"Learn this," she says, closing her hands, extinguishing the light for a brief second. She opens them once more to let bloom another orb. This time, however, the orb is more than it seems. In her palms unfolds a winged creature, a life of its own in appearance, awakening from slumber. It spreads great wings and flaps them once; loosing golden feathers fizzling into nothingness separated from its body, and opens its long, sharp beak in silent cry.

The phoenix sits in her hand, lifelike and beautiful. "This is control, Cyndori," she says. "This is the you I believe you to be."

The phoenix cranes its neck to look up at me and lets out another silent cry, beating its wings, showing force. I stare back at it, but even now, I feel a ripple go through the air; the invisible yet sensible conduits of power crossing and connecting, focused upon the incarnation of Light. A shudders runs through the phoenix, and it destabilizes in her hand.

Darkness returns with the passing of the Light, casting us both into our great distances of silence, though only inches separate us. Nyssa says nothing. I say nothing. We sit quietly once more. In the distance, I swear I still hear voices and feel shudders.

I do not know how much time passes, but it feels as hours before Nyssa speaks again, "Tell me about your family?"

The pain returns, but the darkness is a wall between us and I ask in return, "If I do, will you tell me about yours?"

She thinks about this for a moment, our breath the only sound, now. "I do not have a family," she admits. I say nothing, wanting to hear her continue—to speak for herself, instead of always listening to me—and after a moment, she does, "I have always had duty. You understand how that is as a Farstrider, do you not?"

"All too well." I wish she could see my sympathetic smile, to know I could.

"Then, I envy you for finding your happiness, amongst such duty," she says, her voice edging on something far removed from her usual steadfastness. "I wish I had. I always had the needs of the Alliance and Silvermoon. For our people; crossing the sea, by boat or by zeppelin; traveling the land by horse and carriage, so to keep our nation and people bonded and strong. It never ended…until the Scourge came…"

"You desired, though?" I ask her. "You did love another, I feel, in all your long life?"

"Yes, I…" Nyssa stops and I wait. She swallows back her next words. "I do not want to talk about it. I have said enough. There is little else to say."

"Remember, last night, when you said I could talk to you about anything?" I remind her. "I am not going anywhere." The slabs over us reinforce me, and I know sure I hear and feel something outside of them.

Nyssa stifles an uncomfortable laugh, choked just enough to be detectable. "Will you tell me about your family, now?"

"Should we be talking about these things, while this threat still prevails?" I ask, but know I still hold the reserves necessary to protect us both, at least until whatever outside breaks through.

"You will not escape your end of the bargain so easily, Cyndori," she says. "If I can squeeze a peep out of you before the end, then I may die in peace."

"Fair enough," I reply, feeling relief of our words easing the troubles I brought upon us. "We raised horses and hawkstriders—my wife, Karin; my daughter, Veena, and I—along with our own crops on a few acres of farm, somewhere lost in these unrecognizable lands."

I can hear the amusement in Nyssa's voice. "Farmer Dawnstrider? I have difficulty with the idea."

"You as well as many of my old comrades," I reply, used to that reaction. Looking back now, knowing who I have become, I too find it difficult. "I met my Karin while shoeing her horse. A fair elf and a master equestrian was she, traveling the human kingdom of Lordaeron, competing against their best riders for diplomatic good will."

"I remember them," Nyssa says. "I remember the festivals…" She looks outwards, and I know she feels the encroaching presence. "And what of you, Dawnstrider? Shoeing horses, indeed…"

"I was a blacksmith."

Nyssa roars with laughter, stamping the ground with feet, she is so amused.

"Oh, have an open mind, you," I chide her, smiling. "Working metal is not just for Dwarves and humans."

"I am sorry, Cyndori," she speaks in between fits of laughter. "It is little wonder why an elfish woman fell for you and your rugged, down-to-earth nature." She tugs at my sleeve, still bubbling with laughter. "You should see Vranesh," she says, and then corrects herself, "_Champion_ Vranesh, of course; but the elf would take a day off over a broken toenail."

"We are fortunate tough elf women like you abound," I confide, "To keep the rest of us in line."

Nyssa stops talking for a moment, but an uncontrollable burst of mirth still escape here and there, breaking her silence. "I should stop," she finally says. "People like him are not important. Tell me about Veena?"

I ponder about this a moment, going back there to all the painful memories. As the presence and shuddering draws nearer, however, I pull back, feeling still unfit to discuss it, and with greater concerns at present. "Another time," I say. "It is…still a sore wound." I cannot draw my sword in such tight confines, but I make ready to take it up the moment the slabs fall, and woe to the Scourge on the other side.

Nyssa does not immediately reply. She reaches for her own weapon. The shuddering drawn nearer becomes a powerful explosion, heaving up huge slabs over us, absorbed by my divine barrier.

I wish I could see her face, so she might see that I am serious when I say to her, "I promise."

Nyssa lets slip a surprised sound. The last slab over our barrier explodes into smaller stones and dust. A second after, the slabs on our sides crack at the middle from another set of explosions, forcing them to crack at the middle and collapse on top of each other, the weight coming off the barrier.

I grab my sword as Nyssa grabs hers. We both jump up, auras of the Light geyser to life around us, and we prepare to attack.

"Huh…" Keaver says, sounding bored, "You're alive."

* * *

"Huh…" Nyssa mimics Keaver, "You came back to save us."

Nyssa and I stand in the pile of rubble still. We put our weapons away. Keaver, a belt full of explosives around its waist and over his shoulders, looks on almost disheartened. Behind it, a squad of Forsaken warriors stands well clear, and leading them, High Executor Mavren looks on.

"Not my idea, really," Keaver replies.

Mavren walks over, sizing us up. I did not realize the undead could show surprise, or that the High Executor would allow the look to pass, but surprised was the Forsaken. "Well, that's just disappointing," it says, and looks right at me as it says, "You would make a good Forsaken."

"Death's icy grip will not find easy purchase," I reply. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Do be a good little elf, and leave a pristine body when it does," Mavren says, cackling, its yellow eyes have a special brand of unhinged vigor to their glow.

I say nothing else to the undead. Looking up, I notice a blue tint to the dark skies over Windrunner Spire. I turn around, looking out over the ocean, seeing the heralding of day on the water's far horizon. A great pain wracks through my body without warning, hobbling me to a knee, hunched over.

"Cyndori," Nyssa sounds worried, "What happened? Are you injured?" She leans down and puts her hand on my shoulders.

I hiss through my teeth, but recognize it not as physical pain. "I used too much," I say, cringing.

"He needs rest," Nyssa says to the High Executor. "Were we successful in our expansion? Can we get him back to Tranquillien?"

"Yes, we were," Mavren answers, "And, no, I'm afraid not." The way he says that forces me to turn my head to look, causing myself more pain. "Magister Kaendris has found the key to bringing down the Scourge barrier. The Dame is preparing the final assault of Deatholme, to begin today at first full light. I came out here to get you two. You are needed, once again."

"You knew we lived?" Nyssa asks.

"A little birdie said so," Mavren answers with another cackle.

I bear the pain to stand up, shaking my head at Nyssa that I did not need help. She puts her shoulder under my arm, anyways. I rest my sword over the other shoulder and turn with her to face Mavren to ask, "What does Quel'thalas require?"


	10. Chapter 10

** Chapter Ten  
**

The promise I made to Nyssa would have to wait, but I would not forget. I engrain it into my mind through silent repetition to learn the fine control she so demonstrated, and I can hope, her discipline as we march behind High Executor Mavren and his personal guard, up a sloping path, and through a land I sense long devoid of the Light. Keaver trudges along a few feet back, taking its time, but I do not insist on its presence in front of us this time. Perhaps I am too tired to care, but I no longer feel the undead as a threat, leaving it to its chosen peace.

Mavren briefs us as we walk, its pace hurried—critical matters to attend to of its own, "The Magister believes Dar'khan did not move the Scourge barrier's power sources. He didn't say why, but Kaendris believes they are now safeguarded within the twin Ziggurats on either side of the Dead Scar, to the south and southwest of Tranquillien."

"I sensed much arrogance from Dar'khan, in the brief impression I was given," I remark, still with an arm around my chest where the lessening pain becomes the most prevalent. Nyssa looks on with obvious concern. "Perhaps he did not think we would come this far in our reclamation."

"Perhaps," Mavren says. "However it may be, the Dame and I agree: The time to strike is at hand. While Deatholme still reels from the catastrophic blow we have struck overnight, and while the barrier's weakness lies exposed."

"What is this power source?" Nyssa asks. "Do we know what it is we search for?"

"Two stones, infused with a small power of the Sunwell," Mavren answers.

"That is not possible," I say. "The Sunwell was magnificent in its reach and power. We would sense any item infused with its power, and if contained of enough strength to power Deatholme's barrier."

"I would not know, elf," Mavren says, its voice laden with bitterness. "I was human, before I was slain and risen again. For a close neighbor to Lordaeron, your people did not share a taste of power you speak of so highly…in mourning, of course."

It would seem, even after death, old grudges and politics still carried on. We reach the top of our road's hill, however, and stop to look upon the western Ziggurat from Tranquillien. Approaching from the far side, it looks defenseless; just a few gargoyles patrol the exterior grounds. Inside the triangular-shaped structure, capped by a crystal surrounded by cold, azure Scourge magic, I know more Scourge must lurk.

Nyssa observes the same sight as I. "It indeed appears as if Dar'khan grew complacent in his defenses." She speaks to Mavren, "I assume we are between the Ziggurat and Deatholme, preventing reinforcements?"

Mavren nods, pointing a bony finger down through the dead forest, towards the Dead Scar terminating at Deatholme's front gate. "Our forces hold a line in the forests and on the Dead Scar itself, closing the noose around Deatholme," Mavren says, letting slip its hoarse cackle. "I would like to have this morning seen Dar'khan's face, realizing the noose now belongs around his neck."

"We shall soon see his face, Executor," I say to it. "Without his body, of course."

Mavren turns back to us, meeting both our eyes. His guards look anxious, thirsty, and so does the hungered aura appear around the Forsaken leader as he speaks, "The time for talk and subtle action is at an end, elves." He straightens to his full, impressive height. "Now is the time for blood, carnage, fear and hatred on the open field of battle, shared by the living and risen dead. Power down the Ziggurats and bring us the stones. We shall use your Sunwell's power against Deatholme." Mavren turns around, facing towards the battle. "We will be waiting."

Mavren turns to walk away, but stops, turns around and looks right at Keaver; the undead hiding as best he can in plain sight. "Take that sorry sack of bones with you," Mavren says, and then walks off with his guard in tow. His cackle audible as his form melds into the distant shadow.

Nyssa and I turn our attention to Keaver. The undead gives us the benefit of a defeatist sigh as he drones, "I _loathe_ you..."

* * *

Subtlety is no more. The battle at the foot of Deatholme consumes the lives of the living, and cleaves the Scourge magic binding Forsaken with unlife, leaving us little precious time to accomplish yet another difficult task on behalf of Tranquillien, our homeland, Quel'thalas, and all beings opposed to the dark swarm of the Scourge.

We attack the Ziggurat from the front, powering through the gargoyle patrols through sheer force and holy Light. The creatures screech a warning, but there is nothing for it. The drain of Light on my body and soul brings me great pain, but I continue inside, through the necromancers maintaining and manipulating the structure's power. The need of others is greater, and with every dead Scourge and every step forward, I feel retribution drawn nearer; pushing a tired will past exhaustion, emboldened by the black rage once all intellectual determination reaches its limits. The living servants of the Scourge inside flayed into unrecognizable collections of quivering flesh, blood and shattered bones, victims of contesting our path.

My breathing is labored as I bash a human's skull against a pillar and toss them aside, leaving a secured stone compartment undefended, holding the green glowing artifact that can be nothing else but the first stone infused with the power of our lost Sunwell. I put my hand through the compartment, bloodying my knuckles, though they remain shielded by the Light coursing through me, and take the stone. The Ziggurat churns with power once more and fades into darkness, the stone removed, its power cut.

"Cyndori," Nyssa comes up to me from behind, our auras providing light in the darkness. "Do not do this to yourself."

My teeth clinched, biting back a hundred dagger's hurt in every facet of my being, I turn back to face her as calm and collected as I can. "I have to, Nyssa," I say, thankful she cannot see the cold sweat broken out beneath my clothes. "It will not be much longer. I can rest later." I hold the stone up for her inspection. "This is what is important, now more than ever. We must prevail, today, or more lives will be lost and more orphans, widows and broken families made." I hiss in pain as a violent lance of pain passes through me, but fight against falling. "Help me, please? I cannot do this without you."

Nyssa stares up at me for a very brief moment. "Thick-headed elf," she says, once again putting her shoulders under mine, propping me up. "If I have to drag you through the Nether and back to Silvermoon, I will, but you will not hear the end of it."

"I look forward to it," I say and try to smile at her, but wince again. She helps me walk out of the Ziggurat and to the next. My every step feels as my last.

* * *

We have the second Sunwell stone in hand, yet Nyssa carries me along by the shoulder down the Dead Scar. The charred path from Deatholme to the gates of Silvermoon, once the domain of the Scourge, now lies heavy with bodies of Scourge, elf and Forsaken, spread amongst each other in states and positions suggestive of a frenzied, moving battle; lines far too often intermixed. The stench of the corpses assaults the senses, yet the reminder of the greater battle brings perspective to our shared trials, reinvigorating a body and mind to press on, so the sacrifices shall not be in vain.

The battle line against the Scourge and Deatholme comes into view, stationed in a half-circle from deep into the forests on both sides of the Dead Scar and across the dead ground itself at just out of bow's distance from the great gate and its wall of unliving defenders. The alliance of gold and red of Silvermoon, and black and purple of Forsaken, holds Deatholme at arm's length; the ground between them littered with Scourge lay still. The stalemate of exchanged physical and magical projectiles rages, yet there is a sense the full brunt of the storm lies just on the horizon, waiting for a greater cue.

"The barrier?" Nyssa asks High Executor Mavren as we arrive.

The Forsaken leader observes the field from behind an elfish line of archers and their hasty wooden wall. "Not yet," he says, sounding frustrated. "We pelt it still. The barrier must have a reserve source." Mavren smashes a fist into his palm. "It must have a limit. We just have to reach it."

I hold up the twin stones. The glowing green and white objects fit easily into my hand. "It is done."

Mavren turns back and inspect both items, nodding with satisfaction. "Not just yet," he says. "The Dame wishes to save their power for Dar'khan himself. Kaendris claims their unleashed power can be turned against him."

Nyssa, holding me up still, turns her head, looking about the battlefield. "The Dame is not present?"

Mavren makes a dismissive gesture. "In politics and strategy, the Dame rules all," he says. "In tactics and bloodshed, the Forsaken revel." He sizes me up and sounds thoughtful. "You look as death has had its way with you, elf." The cackle comes once again. "Are you yet ready to join the dark side?"

"Piss off," I growl at him, and wince once more. I know the motion is apparent when Mavren gets another cackle out of my misery.

* * *

We watch and wait, hundreds of arrows and spells going to waste, tossed without visible effect against the Scourge barrier. Throughout the barrage, the Scourge return fire with their own, claiming injuries and lives, as our projectiles deflect off their barrier, while their own flies through clean. It is a battle we will lose, continuing on a strategy dependant on a failing barrier showing no signs of doing so.

Catching my breath, I watch yet another soldier—a young-looking elf—carried back with a black, jagged arrow lodged in his stomach to the attentions of healers, and turn back to the High Executor. "Enough of this, Executor. Good lives go to waste, and this barrier does not budge. Let us use the stones?"

Mavren spins around in a way I suspect he initially decides to rebuke, but I see the searching in his yellow eyes, and know he thinks the same. "Dar'khan's power as a necromancer and Magister of the arcane arts is not to be underestimated," he says. "We have the advantage, still. This ground is ours, and Deatholme surrounded. Even the Scourge have limits."

"Far greater limits than mortals," I remark, thinking briefly, dangerously back to my Veena; drowning slow as one of the Scourge's innocent converts. "Hundreds or thousands more may die waiting Dar'khan out, and who is to say he will not be reinforced?"

"Do not tempt fate, elf," Mavren says. "Still…" he shakes his head, disgusted. "Bah…I do not enjoy this choice. It is far too risky."

"Then have faith in the Light," Nyssa offers. "Let Cyndori and I take the stones up to the barrier. We can make it, I know. Long enough to see what affect just one might have. If we can bring down the barrier with a single stone, and still have one left over; then that is one better than before, and the barrier will still be down."

Mavren eyes me with suspicion of my strength and my trustworthiness. "I did not survive the plague, years of suffering, and come this far to sit and wait, Executor," I say. "This is the reason I still live, and I will see it through to the cold, bitter end."

He sounds annoyed, but Mavren shakes his head, anyways. "The Dame will not be pleased."

"And that concerns you?" I ask.

Mavren's decaying face contorts into a wide grin. "Nothing in my post-death existence has brought my miserable life such pleasure, as does angering the Dame." He nods at us. "Go with the Dark Lady's favor, and your Light."

* * *

Nyssa and I charge up the Dead Scar, our protection spells in place, but the Scourge do not take aim at us. Strange is our safe arrival at the gaping arch of an open gate that is Deatholme's front step, its emerald barrier flashing in and out of view at just the right angles. On the other side, I suddenly sense and then see the reason for our sanctuary.

"Dar'khan," I snap the undead elf's name on the other side of the barrier, staring back at us with cold, dull blue eyes. Even long after death, he keeps his long, colorless, lifeless hair groomed back with care, draped over a full-length, elegant robe of black and silver. The look on his face enrages me: he seems amused and is every bit as arrogant as I expected.

"Dar'khan Drathir, elf," he corrects. "Use my full name, if you must take it in vain."

My aura flares to golden life, and I feel a rapturous surge of energy course through me. My fatigue washes away, anger rising higher than I can ever recall, staring into the face of an enemy upon whom my fury lacks proper words to describe.

"Servile scum of the Scourge, traitor, murderer," I rage at him, putting my fist into the barrier, taking some small pleasure a ripple goes through it. "Vengeance comes. Fill your lungs with your last breaths, so you may scream properly while I rip you to pieces."

"Such an angry one," he says, smiling. "I suppose you have been slighted, as well? I really do not care. If you were truly worthy, you would take without hesitation or remorse your heart's most corrupt desires." He puts his face near where my fist is on the barrier. "Come on, then, elf. Bark like a good little dog of Silvermoon, and fail and fall to the Scourge as all others before you."

"Foul beast," Nyssa snarls at him. "The ones you betrayed have come for the end of you." She turns to me. "Cyndori?"

I pull my fist back, my sword held by my side in one hand, and the two stones in my closed fist, opening my fist to show Dar'khan what pains and tribulations we have endured to this point.

The traitor looks at the stones, and chuckles. "You fools," he says, "did you expect it to be that easy? Do you know who I am? Am I as fool as you, to just leave the keys to our barrier—"

I crush the stones into dust, cutting him off, letting the remnants sift through my hands. "They're fake," I say, and drive my sword through the barrier and Dar'khan's midsection, burning his dead flesh with the Light. Dar'khan's eyes widen, the pain not yet registering. My arm lodged up to the shoulder through the barrier, I smile triumphant and cruel at him. "And you are in reach."

The entire barrier becomes visible, a ripple run through it. For a moment, my arm stuck in the barrier and my sword run through Dar'khan, a stunned silence prevails. I do not allow it to last. Surging my strength of the Light with every ounce of strength and will I can muster, achieving a far greater intensity and capacity than before, I pull my sword from Dar'khan and out through the barrier, causing mirror-like cracks to form throughout the glimmering emerald.

Dar'khan stumbles back, grasping the charred wound the Light's passage leaves through blasphemous life.

The Scourge barrier shatters.

I walk through where the barrier once stood. The remains of the once impassible magic, falls from physical interpretation into a noxious green gas dissipating into the air. Dar'khan, the shocked, pained expression on his face bringing me great pleasure, shirks away from the gate, tripping over himself to get away, calling for his swarm to descend.

"For the Sunwell!" Nyssa calls back to the stunned lines of our army, waving them on with her sword. "For Quel'thalas, and to the Scourge's ruin—come forth and fight!"

Arrows and magic fly, meeting the exposed wall defenders of Deatholme no longer warded against retaliation. I can feel the rising morale from hundreds of elf and Forsaken soldiers behind me, rushing the open gate.

My eyes are on the fleeing Dar'khan. I feel nothing but an abysmal depth of hatred focused on him and only him, so that the banshees, phantoms and skeletons between him and I are banished with one long cleave of my sword, casting them all into holy fire, incinerated.

Dar'khan turns around on the stairs of his skull-faced palace of the damned. Clinching his middle still, his eyes take on a renewed determination, even as the soldiers of Tranquillien flood into Deatholme, clashing against a near-endless array of his abominations.

"Would-be hero and puppet of the false Light," Dar'khan spits. "Did you really think you could defeat me here? This is mine. This Deatholme is profane ground and place of worship for all humble servants of the greatest force and ultimate end of all things in this existence: Death! Your Light holds no domain over entropy itself!" He raises both arms out, as an individual would in great reverence. "Come, ye faithful! Welcome your new brethren to the fold!"

A rumble shakes all of Deatholme from hundreds of patches of corrupted ground heaved upwards, uncovering corpses rising to reanimation. From crypts and the shadows of Ziggurats, streams forth hundreds more mindless, hungering Scourge. All focused on the free-willed army of living and undead at the gate behind me, fighting for purchase.

Nyssa, leading and fighting with only her sword, turns green eyes upon me for a brief moment. The Scourge flood descends upon her, yet she smiles at me with a glimmer in her eyes, and makes a throat-cutting motion with her free hand, nodding at Dar'khan.

I turn back, locking stares with Dar'khan.

_M'uru_, I think, _Help me, please, one more time._

_ Executioner_, I hear the wind chimes in my mind,_ your people no longer require assistance. Bring the Light as only your people now know, for your world, and for yourselves._

The Scourge encircles our meager forces, and I raise my sword to the sky, coiling holy fire around it and down. "You assume wrong, traitor," I say to Dar'khan, smiling, feeling a new power source perched upon the tip of my blade. "This is holy ground."

I thrust my sword deep into the corrupted earth, opening my body full to the Light. Teeth clinched, I am a conduit of an external force greater still than the power of a celestial being internal. The Light flows through me, into the earth, cleansing it in passage, and erupts through every fissure and crack with golden brilliance. Fel energy exhausts explode upwards, releasing the Light's intense pressure. What was once a sickly green of unlife now becomes bright and beautiful, replacing the longstanding Scourge corruption with divine fire and determination.

Darkness repealed, the sun shines down once more upon Deatholme through ashen clouds once reigned, now parted. The cleansed earth glows holy, burning the feet and legs of the hostile abominations finding themselves suddenly on sacred ground, consumed in fire until overwhelmed and fallen to the earth in agony, ceased in short time by their shriveling once more into charred, lifeless masses.

Deatholme cleansed, once again returned to those of purer souls, I stand up, basking in the golden glow around me. The Light recharges the soul and repairs the body. The few Scourge strong enough to withstand holy ground find themselves under merciless onslaught from a vengeful, emboldened army, blessed with extraordinary power.

I look up, seeing Dar'khan scurry inside his skulled palace, his robe and hair smoldering from exposure, and give chase inside, tasting the bitter ashes of revenge.

* * *

Dar'khan's palace interior is lit poorly, rank with the stench of rot and filled with a phantom noise not belonged to the mortal coil. Through corridors narrow, steep ramps descending below ground level, I pursue Dar'khan and my vengeance, destroying every armored skeleton and living necromancer stood in my way.

"Dar'khan!" I call to him, my voice echoing throughout the dark gauntlet that within he hides. "I can smell you," I say, lying, but let him know fear not knowing. "I will find you," I talk to him, walking down a long corridor. Dark shadows revealing recessed alcoves I probe into with my senses. "And when I do, you will burn."

Dar'khan steps out from an alcove on the far end of the corridor, the smell of his burnt flesh and clothes wafting down the corridor on the cool, fetid breeze. "Fool elf," he says. "Mindless servant of an ungrateful people, this is not the end. The Blessed Lord brought this plague upon us all, and your defiance of his blessings shall be your demise."

Light's fire coils down my blade as I quicken my pace, closing the distance to him. "Where is Arthas Menethil? Where is the great traitor, then? Your Blessed Lord shall as well pay."

"Oh, and you will have mercy if I tell you?" Dar'khan muses. Black magic fills his hand.

"I have no mercy."

I lean forward into a sprint, closing the last few feet, and slide to a halt as a heavy, slaughter-hooked chain flies past in front of my face. Within the confines of his palace, I just now sense the two stitched-together, titanic abominations lying in ambush on both sides, hidden within the dark corridor's recesses.

I grab hold of the chain, spinning my weight around, yanking the chain to me, and bringing the abomination's arm with it. Using its detached arm still held onto the length of chain, I carry it around to hit and drive back the other. Dar'khan looses a bolt of shadow, and I duck into the alcove with the one-armed abomination to avoid it. Dodging around a scythe the big Scourge creature wields, its entire side open missing an arm, decapitating the abomination becomes an easy task. Turning back, the other abomination crossing the corridor, I open my palm to it and exorcise it in a conflagration of holy fire churning its flesh, puss and blood into a nauseating vapor, leaving Dar'khan once again without his minions.

I stop and listen; my shoulder leaned up against a cold, rough wall, but cannot hear Dar'khan moving. He could not have escaped in such a short amount of time, yet the focused magic of the Scourge within this place proves difficult to pierce, searching for the traitor amongst the shadows.

His smoldering stench gives him away, however. Dar'khan creeps from behind, through a corridor amongst the alcoves I did not see. He thrusts a dagger at me, but I grab his arm at the wrist and twist it upwards, squeezing until the bone shatters and the muscle turns limp, releasing the dagger to clatter to the floor. Dar'khan mutters an incantation, oblivious to the pain, his free hand gathering dark magic. I plant my sword into the stone floor and course holy fire down my arm and into my hand, thrusting three fingers up through his jaw, melting his flesh and bone, ripping the entire lower half of his face off, shutting him up.

Dar'khan makes an incoherent, rasped noise, filled with obvious pain. I cast aside his flesh and bone, driving my fist into the scar in his stomach, lifting him high off the ground buckled over, and explode the Light's vengeance from my fist, tearing Dar'khan in two at the stomach, his two pieces flailing as they separate and land apart across the alcove.

I pick my sword up and walk over to the upper half of Dar'khan, the undead elf still able to function, dragging himself with one good arm to the dagger laying on the floor feet away, stretching his arm out for it in desperation. I step on his elbow, snapping the joint and follow through with fire, searing the flesh and separating his arm in two.

"Sit up straight, traitor," I demand, kicking him in the chest, cracking his ribs until Dar'khan's upper body props up against the wall. "You deserve nothing," I tell him, "but you will face your judgment, looking death in the face as I had to look into the face of my dying daughter."

Dar'khan tries to speak, but without a jaw or tongue, his words are unintelligible.

"Her name was, Veena," I raise my sword over my head, offering the tip to the Light. "My wife, Karin." He raises a broken arm and heaves air still, but I kick him in his face, breaking his nose and skull with a satisfying crunch. "Shut up, bastard. Waste not your breath on me. I am not merciful."

Even in the dark corridors of the Scourge, the Light responds to an offer of judgment. "Cast into Light," I hold the blade up, poised to strike the traitor down. It blazes to life with a howling intensity of orange and red flame in my hand—the Light's answer overwhelming. "So very guilty."

I let my sword fall, and with it, the Light's judgment descends. Dar'khan's last scream pierces the self-imposed darkness, and fades amongst such brilliance the world is not worthy.

* * *

I regret how little of Dar'khan's head remains, his eyes burnt out, much of his flesh cooked off and his skull blackened and cracked, but the traitor's head I finally have, held in one hand at my side, my sword resting over my shoulder on the other as I emerge once more into the bright light of day. I raise my blade flat, blocking the sun streaming uncontested through the sky, and the golden glow of holy ground's light, unused to such brightness after days spent amongst the oppressed Ghostlands, and see Nyssa unharmed, an escort of elves behind her, and Mavren's Forsaken below and behind, watching.

"It is done?" She asks, glancing down at the black mass once belonged to Dar'khan.

"It is."

She smiles, tired but happier than I can ever recall seeing her. A visible relief on her face mirrored on the dozens of survivors and now veterans of battle below, warms my heart, cold still with dark fire spent below in the darkness of our enemy's lair.

Nyssa's elf escort comes around her, and I smile, seeing they are Farstriders. Captain Helios leads them, rushing up the steps, we shake hands. A fresh-faced recruit stands at his Captain's side, carrying a strange item, wrapped in protective canvas.

"About time you showed, Helios."

"We were here all along," Helios replies. "You just didn't see us." We both laugh, full of relief and camaraderie, but my eyes drift away to the canvassed item.

Helios notices and waves the young elf forward: an adolescent wearing the meager trappings and plain blades of a Farstrider initiate looks on, his face marred by blood and dirt, yet he pulls off with shaken hands the canvas, revealing a great scarlet banner of Silvermoon, offering it to me.

"I do not believe the honor is contested," Nyssa explains.

Helios nods to me, and I lean my sword against the wall, taking the banner by its pole and holding it up in the sunlight to see. It is in pristine condition; good as new, and the raised sight brings an excited murmuring through the elves and Forsaken at the foot of the skull palace's steps.

"Here, son," I say, and hand the banner back to the young elf who carried it this far. "This land belongs to you, now." I step back; away from the steps now become a stage.

The recruit looks to Helios, who nods his consent. With the exuberance of youth, the Farstrider drives the banner deep into a fissure in the palace steps and holds it up, flag whipping in the air with the motion and renewed wind, raising his fist alongside it.

The army of Quel'thalas, Blood Elf and Forsaken, released from fear and evil at their doorstep, lose themselves in deafening cheer. The Light returns to our land, and almost imperceptible amongst the victorious cries, I can hear in my mind the music of wind chimes, happy for us all.

* * *

This ends the first leg of Cast Into Light, but it is not over. The Author will be taking a month-long hiatus for work-related travel and schooling, however. Please, feel more than free to read and leave feedback through Reviews and mail to help the Author sustain or improve for the next leg, once returned to full writing capability.

In the meantime, an excerpt from the next leg of the story will have to suffice:

* * *

I draw it once again in Ogrimmar's hard, red dirt with the edge of my sword: the three blurred lines in my mind, the only distinct facets of a greater picture I wonder if will ever clear after days and nights spent with the triangle interposed upon my progressing nightmares. I blink my eyes, and it is there, burned into my eyelids, and into every dark shadow and corner, fading from view before I am able to focus upon it. An elusive imprint upon my mind's eye, prevalent as the scarring of a bright light when stared directly into, yet I cannot quite grasp it or to what it portends.

I look up at the passage of heavy feet, eying a burly Orc male walking past staring at my drawing. Surely, he must think me disturbed, as I fear the unexpected twists of my head and sudden jumps have worried Lady Nyssa. However, he is still an Orc—a greenskin, an enemy from my past. The political situation may dictate an alliance with the Horde—a former enemy streamed forth from the Dark Portal, but as I wait still outside the Orc's great hall, I keep my back to the largest object I can find, staring them down as they stare in return.

Nyssa's boots scrape on the unpaved ground. "That again?" She asks, staring down at the drawing, her head cocked sideways, trying to make sense of what I see.

"It is not as clear as the image of Dar'khan," I remark, tracing the outside of the triangle with my sword tip.

"Perhaps it is not from the same source as before, Knight Dawnstrider," Nyssa says in a way suggesting formalities.

I straighten up, grinding the triangle back into the dirt with the heel of my boot, noticing the eyes of Orc and elf staring at me. "It is important," I reply, "but to what, I do not yet know." I rest my blade, reforged and polished from a training sword into a true weapon of war over my shoulder, laying it comfortably across crimson plate shoulder pads. "I just know this relates to the Scourge, and that our struggle is not yet over."


End file.
